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kell-be-belle · 2 years

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You Don’t Have to Sing it Nice (But Honey Sing it Strong)

Geraskier, Modern AU, Rated T, 25,000K

Tags/Warnings: Hurt/Comfort, Fluff, Anxiety Disorder, Panic Attacks

Summary:

Jaskier didn't know why he was here. His manager could have sent him to a tropical island with white sand beaches or a mountain chalet overlooking a quaint vineyard and yet he had been sent to the middle of nowhere. After a recently developed panic disorder has left him unable to perform, famed music sensation Jaskier is sent to the therapeutic farmstead of Kaer Morhen where their animal therapy program has become nationally renowned for its success. Jaskier doesn't care much for the dirt or the smell or the animals, but the soft yet disgruntled program manager, Geralt, might just make the damage to his wardrobe worth it. A fic in which Geralt is, for once, the emotionally competent one and Jaskier is in desperate need of some self-love.

AN: My entry for the @jaskierminibang though it didn’t end up being as mini as I originally planned, haha! I collaberated with the wonderful and talented @the-painted-prince and their art is so tender and lovely I swear it could make my heart burst! And, as ever and always, a shoutout to my dear friend and beta-reader who wishes only to be refered to as Waldo Larx who is not Valdo Marx in a fake mustache who is not Priscilla in a fake mustache. Much love, I hope you all enjoy the fic!

[Artwork Here] [Read on Ao3]

****

Blind. Jaskier was blind. The light shone with intensity enough to burn away all semblance of color and shape from his vision. The world washed away in the deluge of white flame as if it had never existed in the first place. And the ringing. Oh, the ringing. It pierced through his skull like the sharpened point of an awl, split through the bone and brain matter like too soft wood. He could not remember what it was like to live without its incessant shriek like a banshee dogging his every step. Claws in his chest. Electricity in his blood. Every fiber of Jaskier’s being screamed in protest of the wrongness of each sensation and yet he was powerless to do anything to relieve it. And just when he thought he would be crushed by the onslaught of sensations, Jaskier woke with a start.

It took a moment for Jaskier to orient himself. The smell of leather, filtered sunlight, the subtle rock and sway of tires over the roadway. Car. He was in the car. Jaskier couldn’t remember falling asleep, only the cool press of the glass on his forehead as he looked out the window. He must have been out for some time. Where before there had been signs of civilization, now there was almost nothing. Quaint little neighborhoods with family run shops had given way to a sprawling emptiness. Nothing, but wide, flat fields spread from either side of the solitary road with boundless expanse of the sky blue and bright above them.

“Gods, what fresh kind of hell…” Jaskier couldn’t recall ever being in a place so devoid of anything. How anyone could bear to live in this environment was beyond him. To do so voluntarily was even more so. It was intimidating, the thought of nowhere and nothing stretching on and on and on. The interior of the car felt suddenly excruciatingly small. Jaskier could feel his lungs grow tight, feel his heart flutter helplessly in his chest. He forced himself to regulate his breathing, following the pattern he had learned. In, one, two, three. Out, one, two, three. Within a few moments, he felt his muscles loosen and his heart steady. That hadn’t been so bad. He had been able to pull himself out of it. Perhaps all this pomp was unnecessary, afterall, and he was on his way to this wilderness for nothing. Jaskier thought briefly about telling the driver to turn around, to take him back to the familiar crowded and grime ridden streets of Oxenfurt where things made more sense and a decent latte wasn’t an rarity. But then he thought better of it and sunk into the seat as he pulled his phone from his pocket.

Entering the passcode on his phone, Jaskier sighed as he began to swipe through the unconscionable amount of apps that cluttered his screen. Games, social media, and the like. He always promised himself that one day he would go through them all, but that day, of course, never seemed to come. He checked the weather, completed a couple crossword puzzles, and sent a Snapchat back to his older sister. He was pleased her vacation in Toussaint was going well, but that didn’t stop the pang of jealousy that wedged itself between his ribs. He wished desperately to be the one on a sun-drenched veranda overlooking Beauclair, a glass of est-est in hand. Oh well, there was nothing to be done now. He would just have to make the best of… well, whatever this place was.

Jaskier’s thumb hovered over the blank space of the search bar, the cursor blinking in and out of existence. He chewed his lower lip thoughtfully, considering the wisdom of typing in his own name. He knew what would come up. Anticipated it in the way one anticipated the results of a concerning blood test. But there was a sick sort of curiosity that boiled thick and tar-like in the pit of his stomach and, against his better judgment, Jaskier acted on it.

34-Year-Old International Pop Sensation, Jaskier, Suffers Fit at Music Festival

Valdo Marx Slams Long Time Rival Jaskier After On-Stage Breakdown

The End for Jaskier? Pop’s Golden Boy Stepping Back from the Stage.

Shocked and Heartbroken: Thousands of Jaskier Fans Left Confused as Pop Star Cancels Upcoming Tour.

Jaskier flung the phone across the seat. He turned and pressed his head once more against the cool window, doing his utmost to fight back the tears that burned at the corners of his eyes. He felt foolish, like a child who had been told explicitly not to do something dangerous and was now suffering the consequences of a wounded pride. A phantom voice in the back of his mind chastised him with the quintessential ‘I told you so.' Jaskier closed his eyes, the remnants of his dream floating to the surface like oil in water. No, it wasn’t just a dream. It was a memory, too. Fragmented and skewed, but mostly as he remembered. Bright lights. Deafening sound. His senses bombarded from every angle to the point where even a single additional stimulant would send him careening off a cliff into complete and utter madness.

Jaskier focused on his breathing. In, one, two, three. Out, one, two, three.

The car lurched, startling Jaskier from his trance. The world outside the window was no longer moving, he noticed. The driver had pulled the car along the shoulder, idling beside the turn-off to a stretch of road running perpendicular to the one they were on currently.

“Alright, Mr. Pankratz.” Jaskier struggled to not pull a face at the driver’s use of his actual name. “The retreat is just down that road there. The owner should be around shortly to collect you.”

“Wait, are you not-” But the driver was already climbing out of the car, ambling around the car to divest the trunk of Jaskier’s luggage. He already had the first suitcase out and was struggling with the second by the time Jaskier emerged feeling apprehensive and more than slightly pissed off. “Can’t you just wait here until the owner arrives?” asked Jaskier tersely.

With a great deal of effort, the driver hauled out the suitcase and dropped it next the first with a huff, “It’s a long drive back and I’ve another appointment to get to. Not to worry, he’ll be along any minute now. We agreed on a two o’clock meeting time.”

Looking down at his phone, Jaskier noted it was just shy of two o’clock. “Be that as it may, I would really appreciate it if you could-” But it seemed this man was determined to do nothing beyond getting himself back into the coolness of the air-conditioned car and out of this wasteland of a landscape.

The driver was already climbing back into his seat as he called over his shoulder, “Good luck, Mr. Pankratz. Have your manager call us when you need to be picked up again.” And with a frustrated scream stuck behind his teeth, Jaskier had no choice, but to watch the man shift back into gear and rumbling down the road and away.

“Call us when you need to be picked up,” Jaskier parroted in a nasally, mocking tone, “Fat chance of that happening. Piss off.” Jaskier pulled out his phone, fingers flicking over the keys with shocking speed as he shot off a message to his manager. Knight Riders Limo and Taxi service would most certainly not be getting his business again.

The sun blazed down from the cloudless sky hot and merciless. Not five minutes he had been standing out here and Jaskier was already beginning to sweat. He could feel it under the curtain of his bangs, beading at the nape of his neck. He looked down at his phone again. Two o’clock. He looked down the road. It was lined by post-and-rail fencing and Jaskier ambled over to lean against it, rubbing his sweaty hands nervously over the thighs of his jeans. What if this man didn’t show up? What if Jaskier had just been abandoned out here like an unwanted dog by its owner? A bird called somewhere from the sky overhead and Jaskier’s mind filled with visions of great, shadowy buzzards circling in preparation to feast upon his corpse when he inevitably died from exposure. Just when Jaskier’s mind started to careen off into a tangle of possible worst case scenarios, a low rumble began to crescendo into the empty air.

Down the fenced road, a truck of indeterminate color was growing closer. Jaskier tugged his suitcases closer to him both out of wariness and a desire to save it from the vertible dust storm following in the wake of the tires. The truck rumbled up alongside Jaskier, the cloud of dirt catching up and hazing the air around him. He coughed, trying to clear the worst of it with the frantic flapping of his hand. Jaskier cracked open one eye, getting his first glimpse of the driver. It was a man and a startlingly attractive man at that. Chiseled jawed and dimple chinned with hair pale enough to nearly be considered white pulled back in half-up style. He sat sprawled in the driver’s seat with a casual grace, one hand on the wheel and the other resting on the ledge of the open window. “Jaskier, I presume?” he said, his voice the rumble of a distant thunderstorm.

Jaskier stood there rather dumbly, lips parted and cheeks dusted with the beginnings of a blush. “Y-yes, Jaskier. I mean me, I mean I-I’m Jaskier. Jaskier is me.” It was a wonder Jaskier didn’t bite through his own tongue with that jumble of speech. Not his most eloquent of greetings, but it had been a rather long couple months and Jaskier had not been feeling much like himself. Jaskier cleared his throat. “And you are?”

“Geralt.” It sounded more like a noise one made when they were disgruntled rather than a name. Jaskier wondered if he had heard right, but the last thing Jaskier wanted to do was make this meeting any more awkward by asking the man to repeat himself.

“R-right, and I’m assuming you’re from-”

“Kaer Morhen Therapeutic Farm and Retreat.” He reached into the pocket of his flannel shirt, produced a business card and held it out to Jaskier between two fingers. His movements were so effortless and smooth, it actually made Jaskier a bit hot under the collar. Taking the card and scanning the embossed print, jaskier was relieved to find he had heard the man right.

Grinning shyly, Jaskier said, “Well then Geralt I appreciate your transparency. Imagine if I had just climbed into a truck with some random passerby. I could’ve been in quite the mess.”

“Of course. I wouldn’t worry too much about strange characters out this far. The coyotes are far more of a threat than any deviants.” Geralt chuckled when he said it, but Jaskier’s disturbed expression must have caused need for further clarification, for he quickly added, “You don’t have to worry much about them either. They’re way more afraid of us than we are of them.”

Shoulders sagging with relief, Jaskier sighed, “That’s grand. Sorry, just a bit apprehensive about, y’know, all of this.” He gestured vaguely to their surroundings: the flat, barren terrain that was as familiar to Jaskier as the surface of the moon. “You know, when my manager told me I was being sent somewhere for my, uh, health, I had imagined someplace a bit more tropical. Or mountainous. Perhaps beside a vineyard or-”

“I know it’s not the first thing that comes to people’s mind when they think of a retreat, but once people give it a chance they come to realize that farm life holds its own kind of relaxation.” Jaskier doubted that. There couldn’t possibly be anything relaxing about dirt and sweat and animals that bayed, nipped, and shit everywhere. But Geralt had such a look of sincerity on his face and Jaskier loathed to discourage him. “Let me help you with your bags.”

“Oh, that’s kind, but-” Jaskier found his words caught as Geralt opened the door and hauled himself out of the truck’s cab. He had already found Geralt’s face rather handsome, but seeing the man in all his glory was a different beast entirely. The two of them were of a height, but Geralt had just enough of an edge on Jaskier that he looked down at him from over the line of his silvery lashes. Perhaps farm life held some appeal. It seemed to do wonders for the physique if Geralt’s were any indication.

After loading both his possessions and person into the truck, Geralt hooked a quick turn and drove them back down the road from which he had come. Jaskier doubted a truck this old and well-worn had functioning air conditioning, but even if it did Geralt didn’t seem to feel the need to use it. All the windows were rolled down, the air blowing warm and dusty through them. Sweat rolled between Jaskier’s shoulder blades, gathered under the waist of his trousers. He sincerely hoped it wouldn’t be this way his whole stay. He certainly preferred the heat to the cold, but that didn’t mean he enjoyed being a sticky, sweaty mess either.

Jaskier attempted to make small talk. Another thing Geralt didn’t seem entirely inclined towards, either. Perhaps he was more used to listening than talking, given his profession, but the man answered most of Jaskier’s questions with hums or murmurs. If he did choose to actually speak, it was relatively concise. Not in a rude or abrupt way, but almost like he only used exactly as many words as what was necessary. No more, no less. Jaskier was not sure if he found it off-putting just yet. It was certainly a break from what he was used to since Jaskier himself tended to use twice as many words as what was needed. Sometimes even double that.

With time, two buildings started coming into view. They were by no means large, but in comparison to the flatness of the surrounding landscape, they seemed nearly like skyscrapers. One building was most certainly a barn. Jaskier could see several animals in the pen surrounding it, all snuffling in the short, scrubby grass.

Geralt pulled the truck up along the second building which was clearly the house where he lived- where Jaskier would be staying. It was a long ranch-style affair, clearly built to accommodate several people. Together, he and Geralt hauled his luggage in through the front door, leaving it beside the threshold for the time being. A hallway branched off from the main living area, stretching far enough that Jaskier almost couldn’t see where it ended. Several doors lined each side, perhaps ten in all. Some were closed and Jaskier wondered if he was not the only one currently staying here for the program.

“Bedrooms and bathrooms are down that hall. The living room is a common area for everyone. You’re welcome to borrow any of the books," explained Geralt. Jaskier’s eyes roamed briefly over the wall of shelves, picking out a couple familiar spines. There was a large sectional sofa wrapped around a coffee table as well as a couple of plush looking arm chairs. There was no television or at least not one where Jaskier could see it. He thought that was a bit peculiar, but didn’t have much time as Geralt continued through the living room into what looked like a dining area. The table was long and wide, easily able to accommodate a dozen people.

“We have all our meals together and take turns helping with the cooking. The kitchen is through here,” said Geralt as he took Jaskier down the length of the table and through a threshold where the hardwood floor gave way to black and white linoleum.

There was the clatter of a spoon hitting the ceramic bowl, the splash of milk and half soggy cornflakes hitting the table beneath. Jumping at the sound, Jaskier looked up and found himself face-to-face with a girl. Teenager seemed too generous an identifier, though she was clearly old enough to not be strictly referred to as a child. Her mouth hung agape as she blinked at him, face framed by two messy braids.

Every inch the girl’s face has flushed a violent shade of red, mouth twitching as she struggles to form words, “You… you’re-” Oh. Jaskier became acutely aware of where this was heading. His main demographic was pre-teens to mid-twenty-somethings. And judging from the glittering of her eyes, this girl was not one of his more casual listeners.

Geralt, either entirely unaware of the situation or just determined to not acknowledge it, introduced the two of them with a cursory, “Ciri, this is Jaskier. Jaskier, this is my daughter, Ciri.”

Jaskier cleared his throat, lifting his hand and wiggling his fingers in greeting. “Ah, hello there. I’m Jaskier, oh, well I suppose your father just said that. But in any case, I’m Jaskier and I’m delighted to make your acquaintance.”

One beat of silence. Two. Jaskier’s skin was beginning to itch. Were this silence to carry on a moment longer he simply thought he would scream just to fill it with something. Fortunately, things did not come to that. Someone, however, did end up screaming, it just wasn’t himself.

“Oh. My. God. Dad!” Ciri sprung from her chair, the legs scraping against the linoleum floor in a way that set Jaskier’s teeth on edge. “You never said Jaskier was coming here!”

“I told you this morning that we had someone coming in for the program.”

“Yeah, but you never said it was Jaskier!” she shrieked, fists curled and tugging at the ends of each of her braids as if they were her only tethers to reality. Dancing from foot to foot, Ciri vibrated with a level of energy that Jaskier knew to only be attainable by enthralled young girls. He had been on the receiving end of it enough times to know it was a force more powerful than anything mother nature could design. “Marilka is going to be so jealous! Her face is going to turn all red and sweaty like it does whenever she’s upset.” Judging from her glee, Jaskier was willing to bet that Ciri was not on good terms with Marilka.

“No,” Geralt interjected, swift and terse, “You won’t be telling anyone he’s here. Not Marilka, not Adda-” Ciri sucked in a breath, preparing to make her rebuttal, “and not Dara.”

Gasping like a hooked fish, Ciri cried, “Not even Dara?”

“Not even Dara.”

With a dramatic sigh, Ciri deflated like a spent party balloon. “Fine, I won’t tell anyone.” Which earned a look of approval from Geralt, but it was short lived as she continued, “But Jaskier, I was wondering would you… would you maybe sing one of your songs for me later?” Jaskier’s heart leapt into his throat, his ribs clenched around his lungs like a vice.

Scrambling for a reasonable excuse and finding none, Jaskier just stood there. His mouth jumped, working to form words he didn’t know to speak, “Ah, well you see, that is uh-”

“I’m such a big fan of yours. Maybe even your number one fan! Please just one song?” pleaded Ciri, her eyes bright and glittering as if the entirety of her happiness in life hinged upon his answer. Ringing began in Jaskier’s ears. He tried to breathe, but it felt as though he were trying to get the air through a twisted garden hose. If this kept up, Jaskier feared where it would lead. Not ten minutes in this place and already he was falling apart.

“Ciri.” Geralt, blessedly, intervened. The sound of her name felt like a bite, like the snap of a dog who had been goaded one too many times. Even Jaskier found himself flinching. Ciri looked down, scuffing the toe of her shoe against the floor as she purposefully avoided Geralt’s disappointed glare. His voice was low and smooth once more as he explained, “You know that’s not why Jaskier is here. I want you to apologize to him.”

Startled, Jaskier stammered, “O-oh, that’s not really necessary I-” But it seemed he was getting an apology no matter his thoughts on the necessity of it.

“I’m sorry, Jaskier,” muttered Ciri, eyes still cast down at the floor making her look rather small and chastened. Much more like the girl was and not the young woman she was so close to becoming.

“Think nothing of it, dear heart.” She perked up at Jaskier’s use of the endearment, her eyes glittering as if they were brimming with stars. As ceaselessly remarkable as it was to be admired in such a way, Jaskier couldn’t shake the feeling of hands at his throat. He swore he could feel the fingers pressing into his skin. Could imagine the shape of bruises they would leave. Not wanting to dampen her enthusiasm, Jaskier pondered another way he could appease Ciri. “Perhaps later you and I can sit and have a chat, hmm? And anything you want, I’ll sign.” And that seemed to brighten her a bit, much to Jaskier’s relief.

Quietly, Ciri gathered her cereal bowl and brought it to the sink, running the tap to rinse out the remnants of milk and cornflakes.

“Hey, come here,” called Geralt, holding out one arm. He motioned with the subtle twitch of his fingers for Ciri to come to his side and she did with minor reluctance. She was obviously still sore about being scolded in front of her idol. Geralt wrapped his arm around her shoulders, drawing her close and pressing a kiss to the top of her head. “I’m sorry for snapping. Have fun at school and please not a word to anyone, alright?” Ciri muttered an affirmation and pulled away, but not before Geralt could give her hair an affectionate ruffle. Her freckled nose wrinkled as she grinned back and Jaskier felt himself endeared by the display. After placing her bowl in the dishwasher, Ciri was gone.

Sighing heavily, Geralt rested his hands in the curves of his sculpted hips, “I’m sorry about that. She’s a good kid, but she tends to get caught up in herself.”

Jaskier fixed a smile, a skill he liked to think himself rather adept at. “Oh, think nothing of it. No harm done.” Geralt hummed in response. Something about its tone told Jaskier that he was not entirely unconvinced that some damage had been done. “So, I’ve met your daughter. I hope I’ll have the honor of meeting your wife as well.”

“No wife, but I’m sure you’ll meet the rest of my family before the evening is out.”

“Oh, I’m sorry, I just assumed,” replied Jaskier, pretending that there hadn’t been a spark of excitement with the answer.

“No worries. Divorced, actually. We’re still friends though and share custody of Ciri. She’ll go back to stay with her mother in the fall.” Turning back towards the hall, Geralt beckoned Jaskier with a tilt of his head and said, “C’mon, why don’t I show you to your room?”

The wheels of Jaskier’s suitcase ground against the hardwood floor as Geralt took them down the door lined hallway. The five doors at the top of the hallway were shut, most likely belonging to Geralt’s aforementioned family, while the remaining four at the end were left ajar. Their interiors looked empty of any personal effects leading Jaskier to the conclusion that he was, indeed, the only one currently here for the program. It was both comforting and disquieting.

“Alright, so this’ll be your room,” said Geralt as he lugged Jaskier’s suitcases to the second to last door, “It’s not much, but I hope it’s comfortable enough for you.”

It certainly wasn’t much. A narrow twin-sized bed pushed against the wall with a nightstand beside it. A simple chest of drawers and a desk situated in front of the room’s only window which lacked any kind of view beyond the empty expanse of flatland the house was situated on.

Jaskier could think of several hotel rooms he had stayed in that were far more accommodating. Were he just a bit taller, Jaskier would’ve been able to stretch the width of the room from toes to fingertips. He silently thanked his manager for persuading him to pack light as he sidled inside and tucked his guitar in the corner, Geralt following behind with his suitcase. Geralt was saying something about towels and sheets, but Jaskier was only half paying attention. His mind was rife with a thousand other thoughts, most of which centered around the growing sense of worthlessness eating away at his heart.

Geralt held out his hand, palm faced up and expectant. What on Earth was he waiting for? Jaskier couldn’t imagine Geralt desiring something as inane as a high five, but Jaskier’s mind supplied him with no other possibilities. Fortunately, before Jaskier could make a complete and utter fool of himself, Geralt uttered a single word, “Phone.”

“What?” squawked Jaskier indignantly.

“Your phone,” repeated Geralt. “We have a strict ‘no phone’ policy for all guests when they stay here. We find it damaging to the therapeutic atmosphere. I thought you were informed about it.”

Clutching the little device against his chest, Jaskier stammered, “N-no! I mean, I don’t see what my phone should have to do with anything. Besides, I’m a rather busy man. Well connected. I can’t imagine the fuss it would cause if I wasn’t able to keep up with it all.” He wouldn’t be able to check his social media or the various tabloids. How else would he be able to gauge the public’s opinion of him? Surely they would ask questions about his absence and that would lead to speculation which would then lead to a veritable hailstorm of articles claiming he had been kidnapped or murdered- or worse- that he was in rehab. Just the thought of removing his finger from the pulse of the world made Jaskier break into a sweat. He fought to keep his voice calm as he said, “I’d really rather just like to keep it, if you don’t mind.”

“I’m afraid I have to insist,” contended Geralt, pressing his hand forward with its open, awaiting palm.

Grappling for another excuse, Jaskier squeaked, “Madeleine! My manager, surely she’ll need to keep in contact with me.”

“She is fully aware of our policies here. If she needs to contact you for any reason she has other modes of doing so and I’ll be sure you’re alerted.”

Jaskier barked a laugh, trying to mask his growing sense of hysteria. “That’s far too much trouble for all involved parties. Let’s try and find a compromise, shall we? The phone stays in my possession, but I promise not to look during our, uh… well whatever it is we’re doing here.”

“Therapy.”

“Right, our therapy. Does that sound agreeable?” Jaskier plastered on his most charming smile, hoping it would provide some amount of leverage in support of his case.

Geralt, however, seemed not the slightest bit moved by Jaskier’s allure. He lips pressed into a flat line as he sighed, “Jaskier, I understand that this is a difficult thing for you. I want you to feel comfortable here and I can tell that taking your phone puts that in jeopardy, but I have to urge you to let me put it somewhere safe. You’re here because you want to get better, right?”

With a hot spike of embarrassment piercing through his chest, Jaskier snapped, “I’m not sick.”

“I’m not saying you are. However, you’re not feeling your best right?” Which was something Jaskier could hardly disagree with. He wouldn’t be here were it not for the fact he was, inarguably, not feeling his best. When Jaskier nodded, Geralt continued, “Alright, that’s what we’re here to work on and I’ve found that phones tend to detract from that. With that in mind, I would really like for you to let me hold onto your phone, but I don’t want it to become a source of discomfort. So I’ll give you the choice, hold onto your phone and accept that it may hurt your recovery or give it to me with the promise that I will let you know the instant something important comes up.”

Despite his stature and intimidating appearance, Jaskier was finding Geralt to be rather disarming. Perhaps it was in the evenness of his speech or the steadiness of his gaze, but there was something about Geralt that made the buzzing in Jaskier’s skull feel less volatile. He hadn’t known the man for more than an hour and already Jaskier felt as though Geralt truly had his best interest at heart. Jaskier looked down at the phone in his hand. His face stared back at him in the blackness of the inactive screen and he couldn’t help taking notice of the darkness beneath his eyes, the sunkenness of his cheeks. This wasn’t him. How long could Jaskier continue to wake every morning and see himself changing before he reached the point where he could no longer recognize himself?

Like ripping off a bandaid, Jaskier thrust out his hand. The strain in his muscles wordlessly implored for Geralt to take the phone before he could change his mind. With a quick and gentle movement, Geralt did so and buried it away in the back pocket of his jeans. “Thank you for trusting me, Jaskier.”

“Let’s not dwell on it or I fear I may change my mind.”

****

That evening, Jaskier joined Geralt and his family for dinner. Two brothers, one older and one younger, who worked in town, but helped run the farmstead as well. The older of them, Eskel, was a mountain of man yet had a soft disposition and the kindest eyes Jaskier had ever seen. He made a great effort to make Jaskier feel welcome and at ease. The younger, Lambert, was on the coltish side and had sarcasm in spades as well as a talent for cooking. Divine did not feel like an adjective typically used to describe meatloaf, but Jaskier felt it appropriate with this one. Lastly, there was Geralt’s father, Vesemir. In some moments, the man appeared to be as old as time itself and as immeasurably wise, but then his eyes would glimmer with a waggishness that belied someone of a much younger constitution.

All in all, they seemed like a lovely family. The group of them even all sat down to a game after dinner, a card game called gwent. Jaskier had heard of it, but never played himself, however Ciri was more than enthused to show Jaskier all the rules. She stuck to Jaskier’s side like the spiny seeds of a burr bush, though she, thankfully, did not mention anything else about his music. No requests for songs or autographs or tales of his life in the limelight. Geralt must have talked to her again and for that he was secretly grateful.

Later that night, as Jaskier shuffled down the hall with toothbrush and towel in hand to prepare for bed, he caught a glimpse through a cracked doorway to the room that must have belonged to Ciri. The walls were painted a mossy green and adorned with an amalgamation of photographs and sketches and magazine clippings. A bewildering peek into the mind of a teenage girl. Ticket stubs, prize ribbons, and… posters. Jaskier’s chest tightened at the all too familiar sight of himself. Not one, not two, but three versions of himself all younger and brighter and lovelier than the Jaskier of today.

Jaskier remembered the photoshoot where the series had come from. It had been promotional for his Heaven is Here tour five years ago. He had been at the top of his game, then. Sold out shows. Nightly guest appearances. Basking in all things gilded and glittering and golden like a god at a feast set out in his honor. It should have been a fond memory. A reminiscence of all he had seen and done and accomplished. Yet, all Jaskier could think about was how much deeper the lines of his face had looked in the mirror when he brushed his teeth.The nubs of gray that peeked through his stubble.

Shuffling down the hallway a little faster, Jaskier hoped to outpace the shadows of his thoughts as they crawled after him with outstretched fingers.

Back in his room, Jaskier closed his eyes and drew a collective breath. In, one, two, three. Out, one, two, three. The tightness in his chest loosened a little, but still he felt unsettled. Jaskier looked at the room around him. Spare and functional, yet with small touches that hinted at the attempt of making it more welcoming. Watercolors of lush farmland on the walls. A lavender scented candle and a packet of matches. A chunky, seemingly hand-knit blanket draped over the foot of the narrow bed.

Organization. Jaskier tended to live his life in a chaotic cluster of belongings packed hastily into traveling cases, but his therapist had suggested grounding. Setting roots. It was true, his stay at Kaer Morhen would not be long, but the tempest of his unease could be settled by surrounding himself with the familiar. His clothes, his books, his baubles, and bits. Setting his traveling case on the bed, Jaskier dug his hands in and began unpacking.

Jaskier’s fingers whispered against the silken fabric of one shirt, folding it with as much care as he could, “I’m so sorry, my love,” he crooned to the garment, “this is not the treatment you deserve, but when needs must.” With no proper closet, Jaskier had no choice other than the small chest of drawers that sat opposite his bed. It was a sturdy piece and smelled faintly of the cedar it was fashioned from. Creases would remain a concern, but at least Jaskier’s clothes wouldn’t smell, too.

It was a tight fit, but Jaskier managed to wedge everything he brought into the drawers. He lined his shoes by the door, stacked his books on the window sill, arranged his pens and notebooks on the little desk. Setting his hands on the notch of his hips, Jaskier stepped back and admired his handiwork. It wouldn’t stay neat for long- Jaskier gave himself two days at most- but it felt good to be settled. Soothed the itch that burned under his skin.

For a moment at least.

Tucked in the corner, just beside the dresser, sat the hard case that housed Jaskier’s guitar. He had thought about not bringing it, back when he had been deciding between which shirts and jackets and rings seemed appropriate for the rustic ambience of his little getaway. However, the thought of not bringing it filled Jaskier with an emptiness that outweighed the apprehension of having it with him. Yet, its presence mocked him now. In the quiet of the night he could practically hear the strings singing to him. Calling out in a desperate plea to be played, but Jaskier’s palms grew slick. His knuckles locked up. The very thought of feeling those strings beneath his fingers made the fear swell inside Jaskier like the rising tide of a storm he had no hope of weathering.

Fighting desperately not to retch against the bile of his panic, Jaskier snatched his guitar case. He shuffled like a silent thief through the sleeping house and out the back door. He didn’t know where he was going or what he hoped to accomplish. All Jaskier knew was the thought of being confined in that cell of a room with the void of his case sucking in all the light made him feel ill.

The darkness of the night spread ahead of Jaskier like spilled ink. It seemed endless. Nothing but the isolated silhouettes of trees and rocks. Then, like the beacon of a lighthouse at the edge of the sea, Jaskier was drawn to the floodlights of the barn. He was not overly fond of the idea of leaving his most precious possession amongst a mass of common farm animals, but he could not have it in the house. The strings would sing to him through the floorboards, haunt his dreams with their mournful twang.

Moths were fluttering dazedly in the light as Jaskier came to a side door bearing a nameplate with the words ‘tack room’ over the threshold. He had absolutely no idea what a ‘tack room’ was nor did he know what was stored there, but it at least seemed devoid of any animal life. Jaskier was correct in his assumption and learned that ‘tack’ must have been a catch-all term for the various trappings of horses. Saddles, blankets, bridels, and the like.

Skittering around the edges of the room, Jaskier searched for a place to stash his guitar. Someplace dry and concealed enough that he couldn’t be easily stumbled upon. The last thing he wanted was someone touching his cherished instrument with their greasy, inexperienced hands. Cursing under his breath, Jaskier was nearly ready to give up in search of another hiding place when he noticed a ladder resting against the wall in one corner. Setting down the case, Jaskier climbed up for a cursory glance, finding the area to be nothing more than a hayloft. He could hear the shuffle and huff of the animals in their stables beneath the floorboards. It was warm and dry albeit a bit dusty, but still suitable enough for the storage of his prized instrument.

It took more effort than Jaskier anticipated to lug the case up the ladder behind him. He was red faced and sweating by the time he slid the thing across the floor of the hayloft. Resting with his hands on his knees, Jaskier took a moment to catch his breath. There was a brief moment of clarity. An instance where Jaskier paused and wondered to himself, was this something he was really doing? It felt as though this was crossing a boundary, taking him down a level to which he had never stooped before. This guitar was his most prized possession. The thing with which his entire life hinged. What kind of person would he have become had he not found the thing all those years ago tucked away in the attic of his childhood home, in need of a good tuning, but a fine instrument nonetheless. Jaskier looked around the dark and dust of the hayloft and noticed the irony of it.

Jaskier carried the case to the back wall. No one would be able to see it from the ground, but Jaskier didn’t know how often this place was visited. With some effort, he pushed a couple of bales in front of the case to block it entirely from view. With many much more easily accessible bales, Jaskier doubted anyone would find the thing. He was confident his guitar would stay safe and hidden for the duration of his stay. With the dark deed completed, Jaskier pricked his way back down the ladder and to the house, hoping that now, just maybe, he would be able to settle down for the night. Wishful thinking.

****

Jaskier had not been asleep long. The small, unfamiliar bed had not been kind to him and not even the hand-knit blanket had been enough to change that. Paired with general insomnia, Jaskier spent the majority of the night cycling through reading the same paragraph in his book fifteen times, arranging and rearranging all the bedclothes in a bid to get comfortable, and staring up at the ceiling in a mix of contemplation and existential dread. Eventually, exhaustion caught up with Jaskier and dragged him down into a fitful slumber like a wolf taking down a hare. It had been two hours at the most when Jaskier was awoken by a knock at the door.

Grumbling, Jaskier rolled over and pulled the hand-knit blanket tighter around himself. He had begun to drift off again when another knock came, this time, louder. Jaskier opened one eye, taking in the room around him. It was still dark, though the faint glow behind the curtains determined that dawn could not be far off.

“What fresh hell…” Jaskier reached out, smacking his palm against the surface of the nightstand until he found the alarm clock, struggling to make sense of its arms and notches with this sleep addled brain. It was just after five in the morning. No one sane could be up at this hour. Only insomniacs and masochists.

Again, came the knock.

“Sleeping, come back later,” Jaskier called back to his unwanted visitor, nestling back down into the cocoon of blankets as if the swaths of cotton could keep the world at bay. Still, the knocking persisted. Jaskier did his best to ignore it, to clear his mind and drift back off into the ether of sleep, but the steady rhythm of the knocking cut through him to the point where he swore he could feel its beat vibrating in his very bones.

With an aggravated cry, Jaskier thrashed in the blankets, wrestling to extricate himself from their folds and give whoever was at his door a piece of his mind. “If that knocking doesn’t stop this instant, so help me, I’m going to take my foot and shove it up your- Geralt.”

Jaskier nearly choked on the name as it lodged in his throat like a stone. Geralt arched a brow at him, the corner of his mouth twitching in what was nearly a smile. Something about this must have been amusing to him, but he was doing his best not to show it.

“Morning,” he rumbled, “best be getting yourself ready. Breakfast is on the table and Lambert will have a fit if you let it go cold.”

Jaskier blinked slowly, his sleep deprived brain processing at the speed of molasses on a frigid winter’s day. Geralt was already dressed for the day. Slim jeans tucked into tall leather boots and a t-shirt that accentuated the dips and curves of his musculature in the simplest yet most enticing of ways. Perhaps it was the result of his sleeplessness, but Jaskier found himself staring for longer than what could be considered appropriate. The sound of Geralt clearing his throat brought Jaskier back to himself albeit pink cheeked and more than a tad embarrassed.

“Um, sorry I, uh… just save me a plate or something? I’m not particularly hungry right now and I think I’m just going to treat myself to a couple more hours of sleep so…” He trailed off, fully expecting for Geralt to offer a gesture of understanding and then leave Jaskier to his devices.

“Sorry to disappoint, but this is when we start the day around here.”

“Well, I didn’t really get the best sleep last night.”

“When the morning chores are done you can have a nap if you’d like. Sometimes I even take one myself.”

Jaskier huffed, frustrated by Geralt’s lack of sympathy. At the risk of seeming like a diva, Jaskier was not accustomed to much opposition. It wasn’t that he expected to have his every whim indulged, but a couple more hours of sleep hardly seemed like an exorbitant request. Madeleine hardly ever roused him before noon if there wasn’t a good reason like a flight to catch or a particularly nice brunch setup. And seeing how neither of those seemed to be involved, Jaskier wasn’t inclined to give in.

“Look,” sighed Jaskier. “I understand that you’re just doing your job. You’ve been hired to do whatever it is you do here and I am going to be as sensitive as I can be to that, but there are some boundaries that aren’t meant to be crossed and that is most certainly one. I am international best-selling artist and-”

“Alright.”

“-you’re just going to have to- wait what?” Jaskier stopped himself short, brows furrowed as he blinked up at Geralt and parroted, “Alright?”

“Alright.” Geralt affirmed with a nod. “If it’s something you feel that strongly about, then we can compromise. Does another two hours sound alright?”

Jaskier almost felt too stunned to speak, caught off guard by Geralt’s amenity. Jaskier had been expecting a bit more resistance, had been prepared for it, but now that it was unnecessary he felt a bit like a small dog who had made a big fuss over some baseless sound. Chest puffed, hackles raised. “Ah, yes, that sounds agreeable. Thank you for, uh, understanding.”

“Sure thing. I’ll come back and get you then.” And then Geralt was gone, boots clunking against the hardwood floor. Jaskier spent a few moments staring at the space where Geralt had been, the hall feeling abnormally empty without his bulking frame, before he slipped back into his room and between the sheets of his bed.

Breathing a heavy sigh, Jaskier sunk into the mattress and closed his eyes. He waited for sleep to take him. Waited for that creep of darkness to drag him under into the bliss of unconsciousness. It lingered in the back of his skull, but seemed content to stay there never advancing. Jaskier tossed from one side to the other. Flipped the pillow and flopped onto his back. Pulled the blankets up to his chin and then pushed them down below his waist. Jaskier made a strangled noise, somewhere between a howl of frustration and a raging roar. He rolled himself out of bed, shoved his limbs through the first shirt and pair of pants in his drawer, and stalked out to the kitchen.

The Rivia family was situated around the table laughing and talking and passing around platters piled with thick hotcakes, fluffy scrambled eggs, and glistening bacon. The very picture of familial bliss. Jaskier felt like an intruder. A stormcloud encroaching on a clear blue sky. Everything in him told him to turn away, to retreat back his solitude and leave them to their chatter and merriment. The thought was traveling from his brain to his muscles, his shoulders and hips twisting as they angled to take him away.

“Jaskier.” Jaskier stopped still, looked up to see Geralt peering at him over the rim of his coffee cup. “Good morning. I’m happy you decided to come join us.” Jaskier grinned sheepishly, picking at a loose thread sticking out from his shirt cuff.

“Jaskier!” Ciri popped up from her seat, her hair fluffy and sleep tousled and wild around her pale face. “Come here, come here! Geralt set your place up next to me!”

Sure enough, when Jaskier stepped towards the table, there was an empty plate placed before the seat next to Ciri. A mug of coffee was steaming beside the plate ready and waiting to be loaded down with cream and sugar. Jaskier looked over at Geralt who just sipped surreptitiously at his own coffee, his lips curled in a benign little smile. Jaskier wasn’t sure how to feel about that just yet, but he was leaning towards something positive.

Lambert barked something about how the hotcakes weren’t getting any hotter and that prompted Jaskier to slide into his waiting seat. Without having to make any requests, Jaskier’s plate was loaded down with food before things continued on without the barest hitch. Everyone welcomed him into the fold of their company as if he had never been apart from it. And it felt surprisingly good to be surrounded by it, all the brightness and revelry. It dulled the ache in Jaskier’s heart, made him feel a little lighter. For the first time, Jaskier thought that maybe, just maybe, this place may actually do him some good.

*****

Jaskier was uncomfortable. It was not that he disliked animals, but he had little experience with animals and what he had was not particularly positive. His mother had a cat while he was growing up. An over-glorified pom-pom with a face flat enough to look comical. She used to sit on the top of the fridge, waiting for unsuspecting victims to walk by so she could assault them with her hisses and batting paws. An ornery cat was one thing, but this… this was an entirely different animal. Pun mostly intended.

Jaskier yelped as a donkey swung its head over the stall of its door and let out with a bray loud enough to make his ears ring. At nearly the same moment, one of the goats skittered by him, bumping into Jaskier’s legs with enough force that it nearly toppled him arse-over-tits into a water trough. While the majority of his person was spared, Jaskier still suffered a wet sleeve and groaned as he held it out from himself like it was diseased. It could have been. Gods only knew what sort of bacteria lived in that trough.

Geralt emerged from around the corner, a bale of hay perched on his shoulder as casual as anything. Were Jaskier’s shirt not now sopping wet up to the elbow, he would have appreciated the ripple of Geralt’s muscles as he tossed the bale down in front of the donkey’s stall, “Let me guess, that was Lil’ Bleater.”

“‘Lil’ what now?” parroted Jaskier, pulling his arm out from the damp sleeve so he could ring the water from it as best as he could.

“The goat, white and tan? Mischievous little thing. He knows that you’re new and that's just his way of saying ‘hello,'”

“I suppose I’ve received colder welcomes, but I’ve certainly gotten warmer, too.” Jaskier wrung out whatever water he could from his sleeve and slipped his arm through it once again. “Are there more of those around? Should I have my guard up?”

“We have twelve goats,” said Geralt, opening the door to the donkey stall and pushing the hay bale inside with the press of his heel. “-but most of them are nannies so they’re more docile. Lil’ Bleater is the only billy goat so he thinks he has to act tough.” Geralt walked down the hall a bit and retrieved a pitchfork from a hook. “Alright, Polka here needs to get her stall mucked and then have some fresh bedding put down.”

Dumbly, Jaskier took the pitch fork as Geralt handed it to him, blinking like a deer caught in the headlights. “Wait… you want me to do what?”

“Muck the stall.”

“Muck? Muck as in shoveling shit? Oh no, I think not. There’s got to be something else I can do. Perhaps something not quite so up close and personal?”

Geralt shared an amused look with the aforementioned Polka before saying, “You know, the whole point of animal therapy is to kind of be up close and personal with the animals. That’s why it’s called ‘animal therapy.'”

With an indignant huff, Jaskier snapped, “I could very well garner that for myself, thank you, but must this be the task I’m given? Can’t I- oh, I don’t know- do literally anything else?”

“Fine, then how about we try something else first?” Jaskier watched as Geralt rested the rake against the wall, walking down to the end of the stable and to the door to what Jaskier now knew was the tack room. Dread seized Jaskier as his thoughts flooded with the memories of last night. The macabre tableau of burying away his guitar in the upper loft as if were a corpse in need of disposing. Geralt wouldn’t find it, would he? It wouldn’t have gotten there on its own accord and that would lead to questions which would lead to a confrontation which would- oh wait, Geralt was coming back. A bucket swung from his hand and was filled with what appeared to be brushes and combs.

As he approached Jaskier, Geralt reached into his pocket and said, “Here, you’re going to need these.” Electricity spiked down the length of Jaskier’s hand as Geralt took it within his own and shoved a collection of hard, gritty lumps into the cup of his palm.

Jaskier stammered, “W-wait, what-” but before he could make any further inquiry Geralt released his hold and turned to open the stall door nearest the end of the stable. The latch gave way with a resounding clunk. Geralt slipped inside and, despite his apprehension, Jaskier slipped in after him. There was a particularly threatening looking rooster strutting in his direction and Jaskier had no desire to be left alone with it.

Out of the frying pan and into the fire, or so the expression went.

The goats had been one thing and the donkeys had been another, but here Jaskier found himself confronted by yet another beast entirely: a horse. Jaskier’s heart stuttered in his chest, his first thought being for how alarmingly large the creature was. It was one of those things where one could not possibly fathom the scale of it until you had seen it in person like a skyscraper or a redwood tree. Pictures and film did absolutely nothing to prepare you for the sheer enormity of the thing as you stood next to it.

Intimidated, Jaskier turned to slip back out the stall, but then he remembered the rooster that waited outside with its blade-sharp beak and hesitated. It was just enough time for Geralt to appear beside him, a steadying hand pressing on Jaskier’s shoulder.

“Easy now,” he whispered, his breath warm against the side of Jaskier’s face. “No need to be scared, she’s not going to hurt you.” Geralt clicked his tongue and the horse raised her head, shoots of dry hay twitching between her lips. Jaskier inadvertently squeaked. “It’s alright, Jaskier. You still got those sugar cubes I gave you?”

Remembering the hard lumps Geralt had shoved into his hand, Jaskier looked down to find he was indeed holding sugar cubes. However, the clench and sweat of his grasp had transfigured them into something closer resembling blobs than cubes. Jaskier grimaced, the half-melted sugar stuck sweet and sticky in the creases of his palms.

“Alright, now hold out your hand.”

“Geralt, I don’t-”

“Trust me.” Swallowing thickly, Jaskier raised his hand an inch. Two. Then three. All while Geralt uttered encouragement into his ear like the serpent to Eve, “Good, now keep your palm flat. Thumb tucked in. Perfect, just like that.” Intrigued, the horse took a step towards Jaskier’s offered hand, her hoof making a distinct clop on the hard floor. Jaskier shrunk back and were he not so apprehensive about the horse, he would have blushed at the fact that he had pressed himself into the curve of Geralt’s chest behind him.

As she drew closer, Jaskier could not stop himself from taking notice of how pretty she was. Her coat was a warm and glossy chestnut. Her wide, dark eyes were rimmed with rows of lashes full and delicate enough to put any high fashion model to shame. A stripe of bright white accentuated the length of her face, a lock of hair falling artfully across her forehead. Jaskier did not know much about horses- in fact, he knew next to nothing about them- however, were he asked, he would say there was no finer specimen.

The horse huffed softly, nostrils flaring slightly as she brushed her muzzle against Jaskier’s outstretched hand. He sucked in a gasp, his entire body going rigid. He wanted to move, but felt unsure whether it was wise. Jaskier wasn’t looking to be stomped or kicked to death, thank you very much. “O-oh… h-hello there, lovely." laughed Jaskier nervously. Compliments would not win him any favors in this situation, but he supposed they couldn’t hurt either.

“Jaskier, this is Roach. Roach say hello to Jaskier.” The horse continued to snuffle against his hand, her breath warm and wet against his skin. Jaskier yelped quietly as Roach’s lips twitched and plucked the cube from his grasp, nickering as she crunched the sweet between her teeth.

Chuckling, Geralt said, “That wasn’t so bad, now was it?” Indeed it wasn’t, but Jaskier would rather choke on his own tongue than admit it. If Geralt’s growing smirk were any indication, it seemed Jaskier didn’t need to anyway. “Like humans, she has her moods, but she’s a good girl and a couple of sugar cubes is a surefire way into this little lady’s heart.” ‘Little Lady’ did not seem the appropriate diminutive. Roach was enormous and not just in stature, Jaskier was noticing. She was quite round as well, particularly around her middle.

“Goodness, then how many must curry your favor with sugar cubes to be as…” Jaskier trailed off, carding through the catalog of his vocabulary for a palatable euphemism, “voluptuous as yourself?”

As he smirked, the dimple in Geralt’s chin deepened in a way that could only be appropriately described as delectable. He said, “It's a bit rude to be commenting on a lady’s weight, don’t you think?”

Excuses fell from Jaskier’s mouth in a broken jumble like puzzle pieces tossed carelessly from the box, “Well, I- that is to say- I didn’t mean-” his cheeks flushed petal pink with embarrassment and perhaps a bit of something else.

“Relax, I’m only joking with you. She’s definitely on the heavier side right now, but it’s not from too many sugar cubes. Roach is pregnant.” Geralt explained, smoothing his palm against the curve of Roach’s swollen flank. The horse nickered and tossed her head playfully, clearly enjoying the attention.

“Ah, that does rather make a bit more sense.” Now that Geralt had said it, Jaskier felt rather silly for not having realized. Geralt must have thought him some sort of fool. “Well, then I suppose congratulations are in order. Despite the pride on your face, I assume it’s safe to say that you’re not the father?”

Huffing a laugh, Geralt replied, “Definitely not. No, that was Scorpion; a stallion we were fostering for a couple of friends. He was struck so thoroughly by Roach’s beauty and charm that he cleared a five foot fence just to get to her.”

“Oh, the romance, the scandal,” Jaskier gasped facetiously, “Well, good for you girl. Motherhood is no easy road, but at least you can’t say you didn’t have a bit of fun, eh?”

“Maybe too much fun,” Geralt rumbled back, reaching into his bucket of supplies and producing a stiff bristled brush. Holding it out for him to take, Jaskier had to pretend as if the brushing of their hands didn’t, once again, send a jolt of pleasure down his spine.

Geralt explained the importance of grooming. How the act of it was a form of bonding and a way of showing affection. He demonstrated the proper technique, working along the grain of Roach’s coat with broad strokes. As filthy as it all felt, Jaskier had to admit he did find it somewhat soothing. The methodical strokes of the brush, the soft huff of Roach’s breath. It was easy to let himself melt into the movement, to let all other things fall away like the debris from Roach’s coat. Perhaps there was some benefit to this animal therapy after all.

It was peaceful for a time, but Jaskier’s restlessness was a wild and untamed thing. It wasn’t long before the need to fill the silence overwhelmed him and he blurted, “So how did all of this,” he gestured vaguely to the barn around them with its exposed ceiling beams and bundles of sweet smelling hay and four-legged occupants, “become what it is? I mean, was it always a therapeutic farmstead?”

With a wordless hum, Geralt looked pensively into the gleam of Roach’s freshly brushed coat as if it were a mirror capable of reflecting his thoughts. In the absence of an answer, Jaskier’s mind supplied its own. He must have overstepped a boundary. Crossed some hidden perimeter between what did and didn’t constitute as an acceptable line of questioning. An apology rose in the back of Jaskier’s throat and had just about reached his lips when Geralt, at last, replied.

“I had a difficult childhood. Spent a lot of it in the foster care system, moving from house to house. Family to family. By the time I was adopted by Vesemir, the damage of that upbringing had taken its toll.”

Jaskier’s mouth went dry, like a riverbed after a drought had robbed it of its last drop of water “O-oh, I… I’m sorry I didn’t-”

“No, don’t apologize,” Geralt interrupted, gentle yet firm. “It wasn’t an easy part of my life, but pretending it didn't happen is more damaging than acknowledging it. Besides, it kind of segues into how Kaer Morhen got its start.” He smiled a little and that put Jaskier more at ease. Loosened the knot in his belly. Geralt continued, “Vesemir already had the ranch when he adopted me. Old man has a soft spot for things that no one else wants. Animals. Children.”

Roach snorted, craning her neck and bumping her velvet soft muzzle against his shoulder. Geralt smiled and smoothed a hand down the white stripe on her face. Roach seemed to lean into his touch, her eyes dark and placid like a lake carved deep into the Earth. Jaskier may not have had much experience with animals, but empathy was something that transcended between all living things like the light of stars through the gloom of space. And empathy was something where Jaskier had experience in spades.

“Working with the animals was good for me. Animals are different from people. They don’t have judgments over where you’re from or how you speak or dress or act. As long as you’re good to them, they’ll be good to you.” Jaskier had never thought about it that way. There had to be a certain kind of respite in knowing that you could be looked upon without condescension. Roach didn’t know the things Jaskier had been through. There was no way that she could. She only knew that he had shown her kindness and returned it with a little sigh and the bump of her muzzle against his shoulder.

“Perhaps I was a bit presumptuous and for that I apologize,” Jaskier hummed, quiet enough that he hoped only Roach could hear. “You may just grow on me yet.” She flicked her ears, munching away on the bucket of oats Geralt had retrieved for her. Jaskier couldn’t claim to know what she was thinking, but he got the feeling that he was forgiven.

Something shifted beneath Roach’s flank where Jaskier held the brush, making him yelp in surprise. He stepped back, watching with fascination as it happened again. Thrill tingled in the tips of his fingers as Jaskier breathlessly asked, “Was that… the foal?” Geralt’s smirk was answer enough. An irrepressible grin spread across Jaskier’s face. He placed the brush on the wall and eagerly pressed his palms against Roach’s flank once more. For several moments his hands rose and fell only with the steady pull of her breaths before he felt a light flutter and the distinctive shift of the foal turning within her belly.

“Geralt,” blurted Jaskier, his eyes glittering bright and delighted, “We need to bring Roach more sugar cubes. A box of them. No, three boxes. No, a truckload of them!”

****

It became routine these mornings with Geralt. It still took some coercion and more than a few wake up calls, but still Jaskier would roll out of bed and take his place at the table and breakfast with the Rivia family. Afterwards, they would head out to the barn and fill the hay sacks and oat bins, change out the water in the troughs and make sure all stalls were clean and fresh for their residents. Jaskier still didn’t care for mucking out stalls, but he did at least become a little less sensitive to it. As long as he didn’t let his thoughts linger too long on the fact he was shoveling shit, he found it was manageable.

It was all becoming manageable, actually. Enjoyable even. Jaskier began to look forward to heading out to the barn in the mornings. He would take his time and greet every animal. They were much less intimidating than Jaskier first thought. He still had a healthy amount of respect for them, but he felt much more comfortable maneuvering around them, giving little pets and scratches and sneaking sugar cubes. His pockets were now always filled with sugar cubes.

Most mornings, it was just Geralt in Jaskier working in tandem to complete the daily chores. Lambert and Eskel both worked in town while Ciri was often at school. Sometimes they worked in companionable silence and others they conversed. They talked about all manner of things and Jaskier was surprised to find that Geralt was rather open. Jaskier’s experience was limited, but the other therapists he had seen were tight lipped about themselves, which made sense. But there was something refreshing in hearing about Geralt’s life. It made him feel less distant. More like a friend and less like a counselor.

Jaskier learned Geralt had attended university in Rinde where he earned his psychology degrees. It was also there that he met the woman who would eventually become his wife. Geralt never revealed why they divorced and Jaskier didn’t ask.He showed Jaskier a picture once and Jaskier found himself entranced by the shine of her dark hair and unusually colored eyes. He thought of Ciri with her green eyes and ashen hair and wondered who on Earth she took after since she bore no resemblance to either of her parents.

The answer came almost two weeks into Jaskier’s stay at Kaer Morhen. A group of children came to the farm, brought in by a local group home. They got to help with small chores like feeding and grooming and when the work was done they were offered rides on the ponies and donkeys. It was heartwarming to see the way their little faces lit up with joy. Ciri seemed to know some of the children and at first Jaskier believed it was just from the repeated visits, but eventually learned it was because she once lived among them. Ciri had once been like them, just a child visiting Kaer Morhen. Geralt had taken to her so thoroughly that he called the home the very next day to begin arranging for her adoption. Jaskier most certainly didn’t get a bit misty eyed hearing the story, not one bit.

Jaskier was beginning to like the bucolic lifestyle. It felt good to be steadied by routine instead of tossed around by the chaos of his life in the limelight. There were certainly times where the anxiety gripped him, when it sunk its taloned fingers into the flesh of his heart and refused to let go, but he was finding it happened a little less often. A little less keenly. And for a brief time, Jaskier let himself believe that maybe he was healing. He couldn’t yet bring himself to think about returning to the stage and he often found himself forcefully pushing away the knowledge that his guitar was still sitting hidden in the hayloft, but still it felt as though something were changing. As if he were changing. And Jaskier clung onto that with the desperation of a drowning man holding tight to the debris of a shipwreck. But Jaskier’s calm was only surface level. Ignoring his problems wouldn’t stop them from existing. Pushing them to the back of his brain didn’t banish them entirely. And it was only a matter of time before that became apparent.

Three weeks had passed since Jaskier’s arrival at Kaer Morhen and the weather was turning. Most nights had been mild, but tonight the wind seemed to blow hard and bitter. It howled outside the house, whispered through the gaps in the window seams. A storm was no doubt brewing somewhere beyond the barren horizon, drawing closer like an enemy battalion. Despite this, the night was still a pleasant one. After a delicious dinner of beef stew followed by warm apple turnovers, Jaskier and Ciri had settled into the living room for a game of gwent.

Seated on cushions around the coffee table, Ciri was taking her sweet time deliberating on her next move. Jaskier yawned dramatically, stretching his arms high above his head, “Goodness, this whole night will have passed before you finally decide on your move.” Ciri’s head snapped up, her brows furrowed and bottom lip puckered in a pout. It made Jaskier laugh. “Fine, fine, I’m going to see if there’s any more of those turnovers. If you haven’t made a move by the time I get back I’m calling this round.” Ciri looked panicked, shuffling her cards hurriedly between her little fingers. “And don’t look at my cards while I’m gone!” Called Jaskier over his shoulder as he circled round the dining room towards the kitchen.

Geralt was standing in the kitchen as Jaskier came around the corner, startling him “Oh, Geralt, I thought you were out in the…” Jaskier trailed off as Geralt turned to look at him, breath hitching in the back of his throat. His heart faltered in its steady march behind his ribs. There was something in Geralt’s expression that unsettled Jaskier, something in the tight set of his jaw and the smoldering burn of his eyes. Not as keen as disappointment, but something adjacent. Jaskier hated it.

“What’s going on?” Ciri materialized beside Jaskier, peering around his shoulder to see what had caused the shift in his demeanor. She shrunk into herself. No doubt sensing the tension seeping into the air like a drop of blood in water. “Dad, is everything alright?”

“Everything’s alright,” assured Geralt, giving her a weak smile. “I just have to talk to Jaskier for a few minutes. Do you mind giving us some privacy?” Uncertainty shined in her eyes as she looked between the two of them, hands clasped over her chest. “Just a few minutes, then I promise you can go back to your game.” Jaskier did not know what Geralt wanted to talk to him about, but he did know that he desperately wanted Ciri to stay. To be the buffer between him and that devastating look in Geralt’s eyes. Ciri took one step back, then another, and then she was gone.

The tension swelled thick and humid, permeating into every crack and crevice of the room. Jaskier felt crushed by it. It pressed against his body like the palms of hundreds of hands all desperate to touch him. Desperate to tear him apart. He wanted to say something, anything, to diffuse the tension, but it pressed into his lungs stopping him from collecting enough breath to speak. Just when he thought he could take it no longer, Geralt stepped to the side, revealing to Jaskier the hard shell of his guitar case propped up against the edge of the table. Jaskier inadvertently shrunk back, the heel of his boot scuffing hard on the linoleum floor. It was like a creature of the night recoiling at the sight of a holy relic, overwhelmed by its divineness.

“I found it in the upper loft,” muttered Geralt, one brow arched as he rested his palm on top of the case. "Do you know how it ended up there?”

The heart in Jaskier’s chest churned out the rhythm of his pulse with a sickening chug like an engine on the verge of breakdown. Jaskier croaked, “My room. Too much, not enough space.” It would have seemed a legitimate reason had the words not sounded as though they were fighting their way up his throat.

“We could have found a space for it," replied Geralt, cool and smooth as water over stone. He was rather good at that, wasn’t he? Challenging all of Jaskier’s justifications and knocking them back as if they were flimsy as cardboard. It drove Jaskier mad. Was Geralt oblivious or just blatantly obstinate to the fact that Jaskier didn’t want to delve into yet another quandary?

Shame burned through Jaskier like an inferno. Sweat formed in the hollow of his throat. His cheeks flushed red and indignant as he ranted, “It belongs to me, doesn’t it? It shouldn’t matter where I choose to put my own possessions. I could set it on the roof or bury it in the backyard or even toss it in the yawning maw of an active volcano if I so desired.” Something was happening to Jaskier. Something had crawled under his skin, tightened in his muscles. It filled his mind like a smoke and painted his vision with a vicious shade of red.

Geralt remained calm, his hand half out in a placating gesture, “Yes, that’s true. You could do all of those or none of those things. I just know that it’s something precious to you and I’d hate for it to be damaged.”

“So what if it was?” snapped Jaskier, wild and savage like an untamed animal, “Maybe then it wouldn’t taunt me so.” Were Jaskier in any reasonable state of mind, he would have noticed the concern that tightened Geralt’s features. Wringing his hands together, Jaskier whispered, “I could hear it, you know, singing to me in my room. It wants me to play, but I know that I can’t. I’ve tried. Dozens of times, hundreds of times, I’ve sat with it cradled in my lap and every time I place my hands on the strings it all feels wrong.”

Geralt said nothing, only waited as Jaskier continued to rave like a madman held fast in the grips of his own lunacy. “I don’t understand why it happened. From the moment I first held it, it had always felt as easy as breathing. No thought, only function. And now? Nothing. Gods, have you ever felt such an emptiness? Such a deep and utter disconnect between who you are and the person you know yourself to be?” Geralt didn’t understand. Couldn’t understand. It was agonizing to no longer recognize the person staring back at you in the mirror. They had your clothes and your face and blinked when you blinked, but it felt so hideously disjointed.

Jaskier pressed his face into his hands. The world felt like a riot around him. A cacophony of lights and colors and sounds that felt more like a crowded street and less like the empty living room. His nerves were shredded and frayed. His sanity was held in place by little more than a thread and that was breaking fiber by fragile fiber.

Geralt kept himself as small and non-intimidating as possible as he stepped towards Jaskier, his weather bean palm still held out in a constant gesture of amity, “We can talk more about that, I promise. We’ll work through all of those feelings, but I think it’s important we try to calm down first.” He took another step forward, fingers stretching mere inches from Jaskier’s wrist.

“Don’t touch me!” Jaskier could barely recognize the sound coming from himself. Someone else was using his voice, conducting him as if he were a marionette. He would never scream like that. Would never shrink away from Geralt’s outstretched hand like an abused animal. Something was making him behave like this. But it did not matter, whatever possessed Jaskier had him firmly by the throat and seemed unlikely to leave him.

Geralt lowered his hand, but still held it out in a placating gesture. “Alright, I’m sorry, Jaskier. I should have respected your personal space. I can tell you’re upset and I only want to help you. I think you’re having a panic attack and I want you to know that I’m here for you. Why don’t we try taking some deep brea-”

“No!” Jaskier bellowed like a tantruming child, hands balled into fists at his sides as he wailed, “Everyone is so desperate to make me well and it’s not happening. It’s never going to happen. Can’t we all just be done with this miserable business?”

“That’s not true, Jaskier, and you know it," asserted Geralt, “We’re working on it and we’ll keep working on it. You’ve already made so much progress-”

“What progress?” cried Jaskier, his face burning fever hot as he struggled not to weep, “I still can’t play! Still can’t sing! What use am I if I can’t do the one thing I was put on this Earth to do?” Geralt opened his mouth, fully prepared to rebut Jaskier’s self-deprecating triad, but Jaskier declared the dialogue finished.

Jaskier stormed through the living room, the gwent cards fluttering in his wake where they lay abandoned on the coffee table. He didn’t even notice Ciri, curled up on the corner of the couch with a throw pillow clutched in the curve of her body like a life preserver. It was a wonder he even found the door to his room in the blindness of his grief. But he did, somehow, and Jaskier slammed the door shut behind him with the magnitude of the approaching thunder.

****

Jaskier could not sleep. He rolled from one side of the mattress to the other with the springs groaning beneath him. He stuck one foot out from beneath the covers when he became too hot and pulled it back in when he came too cold. The clock on the bedside table heralded the ever persistent march of time with a tick tick tick. Insomnia had been no stranger to Jaskier in recent months. Tonight, however, came packaged with something else: guilt. It gnawed in the pit of Jaskier’s belly like hunger. Not the paltry feeling-somewhat-peckish sort of hunger either, but the all consuming sort. The sort that tightened against bones and made him feel hollow and frail.

After slamming the door shut, Jaskier had collapsed back against it and slid down until he could feel the hard surface of the floor beneath him. The door lacked a lock, but even through the haze of his outrage Jaskier knew, deep down, that Geralt was not the type who would infringe upon his privacy. There were moments of clarity throughout the throes of his breakdown, that Jaskier swore he could feel Geralt’s presence just outside the door. As if he were only waiting for Jaskier to seek out his comfort. In those moments, Jaskier desperately wished to open the door. To let Geralt take him in his arms and shower him in all the reassurance he craved. But there was no way Jaskier could, not after he had been so hordenously cruel to Geralt.

There was a knock at some point in the early evening, the shuffle and clink of something outside the door. Jaskier did not investigate, but something told him if he had he would’ve most likely found dinner waiting for him. The thought of consuming even a single crumb left Jaskier nauseated enough to leave it be. Instead, he spent the night wallowing in his own malaise within the four walls of his room. Disassociating in the desk chair for a time before moving on to crying in the corner and eventually to sprawling face down on the bed and holding his breath until spots danced behind his eyelids. Eventually he resigned himself to sleep, but had only managed to doze for an hour out of pure exhaustion before he was up again.

Flopping onto his back, Jaskier stared up at the ceiling. The shadows formed and dissolved and reformed into a series of amorphous shapes on the pale painted surface. How could he have acted like that? It was not unknown for Jaskier to be taken by fits of passion, but whatever had happened earlier had been entirely foreign. Alien. He found that he could only remember it in pieces like he had been a passenger in a rolling car and all he had seen were flashes of the accident through the shattered windows. Geralt tried his hardest, but he hadn’t been able to mask the hurt on his face as Jaskier had smacked his hand away. His expression floated in the darkness of Jaskier’s mind, pale and apparitional. Jaskier wondered if it would haunt him forever in the same way the strings of his guitar still sang to him through the shell of its case.

It was around two o’clock when Jaskier found he could ignore the call of nature no longer. The house would no doubt be asleep at this hour and Jaskier was confident in his ability to pop down to the washroom undetected. Donning his blanket like a cloak, Jaskier slipped from his room, his sock clad feet almost soundless on the hardwood. Jaskier conducted his business as quickly as he could though he took a moment to indulge in a few splashes of cold water to his hot, tear swollen face. When he emerged, Jaskier made to go back to his room, but stopped at the sound of a cough from the direction of the living room. That cough could have been anyone. Perhaps not Ciri since it had sounded distinctly male, but aside from that it could have been anyone. Vesemir, Lambert, Eskel… Geralt.

There was a saying that curiosity killed the cat and Jaskier had found that idiom to be truthful more often than not. It was curiosity that drove him down the hall and away from the sanctuary of his room, to peer as covertly as he could around the corner and into the living room. Of course it was Geralt. It had to be Geralt. He was tucked cozily into the bend of the sectional, his features illuminated by the screen of the tablet perched in his lap. Despite everything, Jaskier felt compelled to sit beside him, to nestle himself into the curve of the couch and the curve of Geralt’s shoulder and let everything else melt away. Jaskier’s face heated at the thought. Judging by the furrow of his brow, Geralt was deeply focused on whatever it was he was doing and ought not to be disturbed. Jaskier turned, resigning himself to go back to his room, but the floorboard creaked beneath him like an old crone drawing her last breath.

“Jaskier?”

Cursing inwardly, Jaskier wrapped the blanket more securely around his shoulders and slid from around the corner into view. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to disturb you. I didn’t know anyone else was awake.” Jaskier’s tongue felt heavy behind his teeth, felt clumsy as it shaped itself around his words. “I could go back to my room if you want.” Some small, desperate part of himself hoped that Geralt would decline, but Jaskier would not be surprised if he didn’t. He had been unspeakably cruel to Geralt when the man had shown him nothing less than the utmost patience and kindness.

“No, you don’t have to go back to your room. Unless you want to, that is. But I would very much like it if you came and sat with me.” And that made Jaskier’s heart flutter, his steps lighter as he crossed the darkened room to where Geralt sat.

“How did you know it was me?”

Geralt turned his gaze away, the curtain of his untied hair falling against the side of his face. He swiped his tongue over the curve of his lips, taking his time to choose his words carefully. “Almond,” he uttered, after he had cleared his throat. “I’ve noticed you use almond oil on your hands before bed. I could smell it from down the hall.”

As conspicuously as what was possible, Jaskier brought a hand to his face, pressing his nose against the back of his knuckles and breathing in the scent. It was faint now, but still there. Almond. Jaskier’s heart fluttered. “O-oh, I didn’t realize it was so strong. I’m sorry.”

“No," snapped Geralt with enough intensity to make Jaskier flinch. Geralt’s lashes were nearly translucent in the glow of the tablet screen as he blinked up at Jaskier, as if he himself were surprised by the intensity of his own voice. “I mean, there’s no reason to be sorry. I like the smell, it’s… calming.”

Jaskier found himself smiling, felt it tugging at the corners of his mouth as if by invisible strings. Geralt smiled, too, and that only served to make Jaskier's smile grow. The muscles in his cheeks were growing tight, he had to rein himself in or fear his face splitting in two. “What are you doing up so early? As I recall, your day doesn’t start for another three hours.”

“Sort of. I wanted to check on Roach. She seemed agitated this afternoon and I’m thinking tonight is the night.”

Clapping his hands together, Jaskier gasped, “Oh, the foal! Let me see.” Jaskier strode over to the couch and plopped himself beside Geralt, too enthralled by the excitement of Roach’s potential labor to care about their proximity. Geralt shifted slightly and angled the screen towards Jaskier. Jaskier had to squint a bit against the brightness, but he easily recognized the stall Roach called her own. The mare herself was standing in the corner opposite the camera, pawing at the ground irritably with her dark tail swishing.

Suddenly, Roach kneeled forward onto her front legs, her whole body following in the motion as she threw herself onto the hay covered floor and rolled onto her side. Jaskier’s breath caught, fear spiking sharp and bitter in the back of this throat. “It’s alright," came Geralt’s low, soothing voice. The weight of his hand pressed warm against the curve of Jaskier’s knee and that made his breath catch for an entirely different reason. “Don’t worry, that’s normal. Helps the foal get in position for birth. She’s done that three times in the last hour which makes me think she’s having regular contractions.”

“What do we do?” Jaskier squeaked, the panic rising in his voice, “Do we wake the others or call the vet or-”

Geralt hushed him with the quiet exhale of breath from between his teeth. “It’s alright, Jaskier. Roach will be fine. Most foalings happen without anyone even noticing. She has the instincts she needs to see this through on her own.” His thumb was brushing against Jaskier’s knee, back and forth like a metronome keeping time. “Still, I’m going to head out there and get her tail wrapped, make sure she has everything she needs and-”

“I’ll come with you.” The words were leaving Jaskier’s mouth before the thought had even fully processed in his mind.

Blinking mystified, Geralt replied, “You don’t have to do that. It could be a long night and you should go back to bed.”

“I’m coming with you and that’s final," he said with a determination that left little room for argument. Jaskier softened slightly, bringing his hand to cover Geralt’s where it still rested against his knee. Geralt’s knuckles were rough, milled by the toil of his work and the sensation sent a jolt down Jaskier’s spine. “Please, Geralt,” he hummed, soft and reverent, “I want to be there for her. I want to be there for you.”

Geralt’s lips parted slightly, the edge of his teeth visible in the space between. Jaskier couldn’t help wondering what it would be like to delve into Geralt’s mouth, to feel the edge of those teeth along the flat of his tongue. There, in the curve of the couch with shoulders brushing and hands overlapping, it would have been easy to close the last sliver of distance between them. As easy as blinking, as easy as breathing. Natural and right as if there had never been in a time in their lives where their lips hesitated to meet.

The screen on the tablet dimmed before turning off entirely and plunging Geralt and Jaskier into darkness. It felt oppressive after the burn of the light, but the weight of Geralt’s hand on his knee kept Jaskier grounded. “We uh, we should get going.” Geralt coughed.

The molten gold of Geralt’s eyes burned like the afterimage of the sun in Jaskier’s mind as he nervously laughed, “Yes, right, of course. Can’t forget about our damsel in distress, now can we?” He slid forward off the couch, effectively dislodging Geralt’s hand. And Jaskier had to pretend as though it didn't kill him to do so, that the shape of Geralt’s palm didn’t still burn against his skin like a brand.

****

Roach huffed hard, her nostrils flaring and moisture beading beneath the fringe of her forelock. She tossed her head, lips drawing back over her teeth as she let out with a piercing whinny. Jaskier longed to comfort her, sweep a hand down the length of her neck and whisper words of encouragement. Geralt, however, was apprehensive to allow him in the stall; not because he didn’t trust Jaskier, but because he didn’t trust Roach. She could be a bit ornery even at the best of times let alone while in the throes of labor and something told Jaskier no amount of sugar cubes would charm her.

There was no other choice for Jaskier other than to sit by, chin resting atop his folded arms over the stall door. His fingers drummed against the wood in an aimless rhythm. The bouncing of his heel against the concrete joined in. Jaskier couldn’t say he had ever seen a baby be born human, horse, or otherwise and the anticipation of it left him feeling more than a little on edge. His every nerve felt alight with anticipation and it bled from him like an open wound.

Geralt, however, was as calm and collected as could be. He maneuvered around the stall with a languid grace as distributed fresh hay over the floor and freshened Roach’s water. Afterwards, Geralt wrapped her tail with a thin piece of cloth, ensuring it stayed clean and out of the way during the delivery. Now, Jaskier watched as Geralt stood by Roach’s side, wiping down her sweating flanks with a dampened cloth and whispering soothing sweet nothings. It was quite possibly the most tender thing Jaskier had ever witnessed. Something inside Jaskier told him he should be jealous that the object of Geralt’s affections was a horse, but honestly he was just fascinated. Amazed, even.

“Alright, it’s showtime,” Geralt huffed breathlessly. Whether from apprehension or excitement, Jaskier couldn’t tell, but he was willing to bet it was a combination of the two. “You’ve got this, girl. I’ll be right here.” And Jaskier found himself hiding a grin behind the screen of his hand, feeling hopelessly endeared to Geralt and his little encouragements.

After exiting the stall, Geralt perched himself next to Jaskier close enough that their shoulders brushed. It felt comfortable. It felt right. Like their proximity had never been limited to anything more than three feet. And tith the smile still playing on his lips, Jaskier sighed, “It’s incredible.”

Geralt arched a brow, his golden eyes glimmering quizzically as he stated, “It’s just nature. It happens all the time.”

“No, not that,” huffed Jaskier with a small laugh. “I mean you and Roach. The bond you share, it’s unlike anything I’ve seen before. I’ve traveled round all the world, met hundreds upon hundreds of people of every color and creed, yet I can confidently say that I have never seen anything like it.”

Grinning shyly, Geralt chuckled, “That makes it sound a little weird.”

“How dare you,” Jaskier gasped in mock affront, shoving his shoulder against Geralt’s, “Here I am trying to deliver poignant sentiment and here you are sullying it with jokes alluding to beastiality.” And Geralt laughed, free and truly. It was a sound sweeter than anything that could be made with notes or strings or keys. A strand of Geralt’s hair fell loose from its tie and Jaskier felt the overwhelming urge to tuck it back behind his ear. To feel the strands of it slip between his fingertips soft and fine as spider’s silk. Jaskier had to turn his thoughts elsewhere before he decided to make a fool of himself and act on them. “So, how long until we have ourselves a foal?”

“By this point, I’d say somewhere within the next half-hour or so. Not much more we can do now except wait.”

Jaskier hummed, nipping mindlessly at the uneven edge of one fingernail. With not much else to be done and with little distraction, Jaskier’s mind couldn’t help wandering. He thought about earlier, about the ease with which Geralt had moved on as if the events of earlier simply hadn’t happened. As if the night had carried on with laughter and light and they had all gone to bed with full hearts. As much as Jaskier wanted to pretend, to let himself live in such a pleasant dream, the guilt still weighed heavy in his heart. He felt he had to say something. Anything. Even if it was just a simple word of apology.

“You know,” he began, feeling the warmth of Geralt’s attention shift to him. It made him squirm. “This, um… this may not be the best time, but-” Geralt made no move to stop him, only waited patiently for Jaskier to swallow the doubt in his throat and continue, “I just wanted to apologize for earlier. You’ve been so kind and I know you were just trying to help me and I was, well, a right cock about it.” Geralt exhaled sharply through his nose, like he had suppressed a laugh. Jaskier felt he should have been upset, but that couldn’t have been any further from the truth. He found it endearing to know a silly little word like ‘cock’ could make Geralt laugh. It made Jaskier feel a bit more confident, helped to ease the tension in his heart. “Tomorrow, I promise to work harder to better myself. I would hate to disappoint you or hurt your reputation.”

“Thank you, Jaskier.” Geralt’s voice was warm and honey sweet, seeping into the cracks of Jaskier’s world weary soul like a balm, “I appreciate your apology and I honestly want to apologize myself.”

“Oh, no you don’t-”

“I do. I pushed a boundary I shouldn’t have and for that I am sorry. Aside from that, Jaskier, I…” Jaskier looked up at Geralt then, saw the fervor burning molten bright in his eyes as he said, “I want you to get better for yourself. Not for your manager or your career or your fans and most definitely not for me or my reputation. I want you to think of doing things in the scope of your own sake. No one’s importance should be above your own and I desperately want you to see that.”

Jaskier was left speechless, an accomplishment very few could lay claim to. Anyone that knew Jaskier knew that he loved often and freely. He loved his family. He loved Madeleine and the crew who helped him in his work. He loved the thousands of nameless, faceless strangers who had, mystifyingly enough, deemed what he did a thing worth devoting their affections towards. But in those loves and all of their facets, Jaskier couldn’t say he had ever really thought to reflect it inwards. He loved himself enough, or so he believed. He thought himself rather handsome, particularly about the eyes. He dressed well, spoke well. He liked to think himself at least moderately talented since he wouldn’t be where he was if he were mediocre. It was an arguably healthy mix of conceited and humble.

But those were superficial things. Appearance, talent. When Jaskier looked in the mirror, did he think about things like patience and understanding? On his worst days, did he simply allow himself the grace of being human? No. He beat himself senseless over it. Every day he spent curled in his bed, every night he spent lying awake, Jaskier punished himself. There was no reason for him to feel as he did, no good one, anyways. Destiny had been kind to him far kinder than most. To feel the way that he did felt ungrateful. Selfish. And Jaskier wasn’t sure how to work past that.

“Geralt, I don’t-” Began Jaskied, but Geralt lifted a hand to quiet him, his expression suddenly hard and grim. Jaskier trailed off, examining Geralt’s face for the reason for his sudden sobriety. Geralt leaned forward over the top of the stall, eyes narrowing as he looked intently at Roach. She kneeled down into the hay, flanks heaving, breath ragged. Something shone bright on the floor near her backside and Jaskier was horrified to find it looked like blood. “T-that’s normal, right?” asked Jaskier, doing his best to dull the edge of panic that cut through his voice. “That’s supposed to happen, right Geralt?”

The line of Geralt’s jaw tightened as he murmured, “No, something’s not right.”

“What do you-” But Jaskier was unable to finish before Geralt was throwing open the door and rushing into the stall, nearly slipping on the hay he had so meticulously laid out in his haste. He lowered himself as he made to approach Roach, murmuring lowly as he smoothed a hand along her damp, heaving flank. He peered over Roach’s side, to the place where her foal was beginning to emerge. The intake of his breath was sharp as freshly broken glass.

“Jaskier!” There was a look of unbridled fear on his face as he turned back to Jaskier, a wide white sea around the gold of his iris. “Run back to the house! Get Eskel! Tell him it’s a red bag!” There was such alarm in his voice. It raised the hair on the back of Jaskier’s neck, awakening his most primal instincts of fight or flight.

“Wh- I don’t-”

“Now, please!” And that finally sent Jaskier running, his feet moving before his brain had even fully caught up. Jaskier’s lungs burned as if filled with fire. His muscles screamed as he pumped his arms and legs in a desperate struggle to get to the house as quickly as Geralt’s plea demanded. The path seemed to stretch out in front of him, the darkness and fear skewing reality into a waking nightmare. The house felt miles away. Centuries could have passed in the time it took for Jaskier to reach it.

Bursting through the house as if the very hounds of hell bit at his heels, Jaskier tore down the hall and stumbled face first into Eskel’s door. He pounded on the wood with the flats of his palms, pleading for help. Eskel emerged not a moment later, sleep tousled and bleary eyed, but alert enough. He settled a wide hand over Jaskier’s shoulders. Urged him to take a breath. Once Jaskier had composed himself enough to convey Geralt’s message, however, Eskel was gone. Disappeared like the assistant in a magician’s vanishing act. Were his heart not galloping in his chest, Jaskier would have been impressed that a man of Eskel’s size could move with such speed.

Despite the burning of his lungs, Jaskier turned and followed as quickly as he could. By the time he returned to Roach’s stall, Eskel was already kneeling in the hay beside Geralt. Something flashed in Eskel’s hand like quicksilver. Jaskier belatedly recognized the object as a pocket knife and nausea rose up the back of his throat. He wasn’t sure what they were going to do with that and if he thought too hard about it he was sure he would start dry heaving.

“Jaskier.” Jaskier still felt himself lost in that nightmare, so much so that he barely recognized the sound of his own name. It took him a moment to locate Geralt, his pale, panic-stricken face swimming into focus. “I’m going to need your help. Try to keep Roach calm, can you do that for me?”

With his heart like a stone caught in his throat, Jaskier choked, “I don’t know if I can.” How could Geralt ask something so impossible of him? He could barely keep himself calm and Geralt knew this.

“Jaskier please.” The desperate crack in Geralt’s voice broke Jaskier’s heart in a way he could never have fathomed until that moment. It pierced through the gaps in his ribs like an onslaught of arrows discharged from the bows of an army. It drew Jaskier into the stall. Drew him to the space beside Roach like the moon drawing the ocean from the shore. Jaskier kneeled in the hay, the stalks prodding through the fabric of his trousers.

“Sssh, it’s alright, love…” He tried to sound reassuring, but his voice sounded thin and quiet. Roach tossed her head, a grunt low in her throat. Her damp forelock fanned out across her face and Jaskier gingerly brushed it away with a trembling hand. White ringed the outer edge of Roach’s normally placid eyes. Her nostrils flared as she huffed in pain and alarm.

Something strange happened at that moment. Jaskier felt himself connected with Roach, connected on a level he had never before with any human being. There was such fear in her eyes as she looked up at him, fear that somehow seemed not much unlike his own. A mirror image, practically. She didn’t understand what was happening and felt herself betrayed by her own body and that was not so different from Jaskier when the panic clenched his heart and seized his lungs. No one should have to experience that, human, animal, or otherwise. He wanted desperately to spare her that pain, but there was little he could do, almost nothing he could offer.

Except one thing.

Jaskier felt himself brought back, taken to a time and place long before any of this. Before Geralt and Kaer Morhen, before the breakdown that brought him there, before even his fame which was, if he was speaking honestly, perhaps the beginning of it all. Jaskier thought back to a simpler time. A time when the scope of the world was restricted only to the confines of the village in which he grew up, to the four walls of the bedroom of which was his only domain.

The wind howled outside Jaskier’s window. Julian. He had just been Julian, back then. Trees scraped the glass with their barren branches. In the play between the dark of the night and the light of the moon, their shadows looked like claws reaching out ready to snatch him from his bed. Julian screamed, throwing the blankets over his head with the kind of naivety only children were capable of. In his fright, he did not notice when the bedroom door opened. Julian squeaked as the bed dipped beside him, but calmed when he caught the familiar scent of his mother’s hand oil. Almond.

“Oh, little lark,” she crooned, lifting the shroud of his makeshift armor and passing a hand through his downy hair, “why don’t you sing with me?” And Julian would nestle himself into the circle of her arms and as his little heart slowed its skittish pitter-patter he would sing along with her.

And here, back in the present, as the man Jaskier was now, he sang the same song he had all those years ago.

“There… beneath the willow tree… I learned a lot about the way of things… I learned that everything has breath inside…” Jaskier’s voice was tight, the higher notes cracking beneath the strain to his underused vocal chords. It was a bit out of his natural range, though not impossible. He wanted nothing more than to stop. The melody felt like it was being wrung from him like water from a cloth, twisted tighter and tighter to squeeze each and every drop from him.

And yet, still, he sang. Sang as if all life depended on it. Like the sun would blot out the moment his thready notes ceased. Jaskier didn’t know to which measures Geralt and Eskel were resorting to, to save Roach’s foal and, quite frankly, he didn’t want to either. He focused solely on the warble of his song and the comforting of Roach. Jaskier smoothed the palm of his hand down the length of her sweating neck. Brushed aside the damp strands of her mane and crooned his little song.

Jaskier had sung the song nearly three times through before being drawn by Geralt’s whispered, “Jaskier.” And he could not recall ever hearing his name spoken more softly, more reverently than in the way it fell from Geralt’s lips. A prayer as if Jaskier were a thing worth that devotion.

Dazedly, Jaskier turned towards Geralt. The world around him felt dim and hazy around the edges in the way it did in a dream. For whatever reason, Jaskier found himself captivated by the fall of Geralt’s hair. Several of the silvery strands had fallen free of their tie and curled against the sides of his face like rogue bolts of lightning. It seemed the clearest thing in all this mist and distortion.

Geralt’s hand reached for him slowly, tentatively, with outstretched fingers as he whispered, “It’s alright, Jaskier. It’s over.” He touched those fingers against the back of Jaskier’s hand with the lightest of pressures, feeling him out like Jaskier was a wild animal that could turn and bite given the wrong move. When Jaskier did not flinch from his touch, Geralt pressed onward. The warmth of his hand slid gradually over Jaskier’s own. It sharpened the edges of the world around him, bringing the reality of what had just occurred back into focus.

“The… the foal-” Jaskier gasped, voice teetering on the edge of hysteria. Geralt hushed him and stroked the back of his hand with measured movements. The sensation of his calloused palms was soothing in a way Jaskier hadn’t expected. Like little waves lapping at the ocean’s shore.

“It’s alright. Everything is alright. Look.” He angled his shoulders, allowing Jaskier to look past to where a damp, wrinkled shape lay shivering in the hay. Jaskier kneeled forward, squinting as his eyes struggled to make out the details. Short, wiry hair and gangly legs. A small narrow face emblazoned with the white patch of a star. The foal let out with a soft whine, ears flicking back and forth in a mix of curiosity and alarm.

Breath catching in his throat, Jaskier gasped, “Oh… oh, dear thing…” The world outside was so bright and loud compared to the cushioned dark of its mother’s womb. It was too much to grasp, all the sounds and colors and scents. It was a familiar kind of terror, so much that Jaskier could feel it growing in his own chest like a rot. Lifting a trembling hand, Jaskier reached out. If he could only comfort it. Show it that it wasn’t alone in this riot of existence.

Geralt took Jaskier’s hand and cradled it against his chest, thumb brushing against the back of it in the same soothing motion he had been making all along as he whispered, “Watch.”

Roach had sat up, craning her neck back to look at the miserable little creature that lay beside her. She knickered quietly, nostrils flaring with the huff of her breath as she sniffed at the foal. It shrunk back a little, at first, but recognition seemed to dawn in its dark eyes. Like it had found its way, the sight of the shore after a storm. Roach knickered again low and adorant as she began to nuzzle at her foal, licking soothing stripes over its little face. The foal leaned into the comfort and safety of its mother’s touch and snorted with contentment. To have witnessed something like this, the first tender moments between a mother and her newborn, was nothing short of miraculous.

“It’s a boy. We have a colt.”

With a breathless laugh, Jaskier collapsed onto his backside. His legs had given out from beneath him, the adrenaline of the ordeal draining his system and leaving him as weak and unsteady as the foal in the hay. He laughed again because he did not know what else to do. It came from him in short, erratic bursts. Geralt was not laughing with him, his mouth flat and tight and colorless. Where was his joy? They had skirted the edges of disaster, Geralt should have been positively jubilant. And yet he sat there, disheveled and forlorn.

The world was growing increasingly blurry and panic spiked in Jaskier’s chest, but when felt the first hot droplet roll down his cheek he knew what was happening. Jaskier was crying. It started with a whimper and wheedled its way up his throat like an escaping bubble of air. He clapped a trembling hand over his mouth, a vain attempt to stop the next whimper as it followed immediately in the wake of the first. Jaskier’s breath hitched painfully in his chest, his whole body lurching with the force of it.

Jaskier could no longer see through the blur of tears, but he could still feel Geralt’s hand clasped around his own as he whispered, “It’s alright, Jaskier. Don’t fight it anymore. Let it out.” Jaskier tried to speak, but it was impossible to get his words past the emotion lodged in his throat. He wanted to tell Geralt that he couldn’t do it. That he feared if he finally let this emotion go that there would be nothing left to him once it was gone. Sadness though it was, what would be left of Jaskier if it no longer weighed down his heart? It was all he was now. All he knew how to be.

Curling in on himself, Jaskier keened as he struggled to keep it all locked away. It was so painful, like trying to hold fire in his hands. There was no going forward and yet no way back and Jaskier sat there trapped in the space between the two of them. Pulled ceaselessly by their gravities to the point where he swore he could feel his bones creak under the strain of it. He was no star. He was no god. He was just a man too weary and spent to hold himself together any longer.

But he didn’t have to.

Geralt crawled towards him, enveloping Jaskier in a slow, deliberate embrace. Jaskier could have backed off, could have wriggled his way out like a wary rabbit with a snare, but he didn’t. He sat there and let Geralt take him in the circle of his arms, his body like an anchor holding Jaskier fast against the rising tide of his emotion. A sob wrenched itself from Jaskier’s throat, raw and jagged like a ripped seam.

“I’m here,” Geralt hushed, his voice that low rumble of distant thunder. He rubbed the space between Jaskier’s shoulder blades, rocked him back and forth like a babe in the cradle, “I’ve got you.” And it was like a lock being opened. With Geralt’s assurance, with his weight and his warmth, Jaskier finally gave in. Let himself be dragged under into the depths of his grief. Another sob tore itself free and then another and another until the barn was filled with his desperate cries. And as much as it felt like being torn limb from limb, somewhere deep, deep inside him Jaskier felt just the smallest bit lighter.

****

In the aftermath of everything, the calmness of the night seemed all the more still. No crickets sang their song nor fireflies flickered with light. Not even the wind dared blow the gentlest breeze, the grass tall and unruffled against the dark curtain of the sky. It was serene in an unexpected way. Normally, Jaskier found this sort of stillness unbearable, compelled to fill it with movement or sound to drown out the deafening roar of nothingness. But here, perched atop the top rung of the corral fence, Jaskier felt oddly calm. Numb, perhaps, seemed the more appropriate term.

Jaskier’s tears had since dried, but his cheeks still felt sticky with their residue. His eyes still burned with their salt. The sobs wracked his body for what felt like hours, burning through him and leaving him hollowed out like the weariness after the rage of a fever. Jaskier had suppressed his grief for so long that now that he had released it he felt empty. The weight of it in his heart had been a strange sort of comfort and without it now he felt untethered.

“Jaskier.”

Jaskier blinked slowly at the sound of his name. It sounded strange in his ears, like he suddenly could not comprehend it being a thing that belonged to him. Something slipped around his shoulders and the weight and warmth of it brought him a little clarity. It was a blanket, not the same as the one that sat folded on the end of his bed, but definitely of the same make. Geralt came into Jaskier’s line of sight, his shirt changed and his hair freshly tied back. “I thought maybe you were cold. You were shivering.”

“Oh… I hadn’t realized.” Jaskier’s fingers were feeling a little less numb, but at his core he still felt chilled. Jaskier had the feeling it was something that could not be solved by a blanket.

Geralt climbed up and perched himself on the fence beside Jaskier. They were close enough that Jaskier could have leaned into Geralt and nestled himself against the shape of his side if he only had the mind to. Geralt allowed a few beats of silence to pass before he asked, “Are you feeling a little better now?”

Jaskier shrugged his shoulders, the tassels of the blankets bobbing against his chest with the movement, “I don��t know just yet. I’m not really feeling much of anything at the moment.”

“That’s pretty normal. That was a lot of emotion to deal with at once and it can leave you feeling spent.” Whether or not that was a comfort, Jaskier was not sure. It was a relief to know that what he was experiencing was normal, but it did not make the sensation of apathy less unsettling. For Jaskier, someone who had always prided himself on his empathetic prowess, it was especially bewildering.

Silence lapsed between them once again as Geralt waited patiently for Jaskier to collect himself. “Was there ever a real danger or was it a fabrication meant to break through to me?”

“No, that was real,” Geralt replied gravely. “Roach was delivering the placenta before the foal. Had we not worked as quickly as we did we could’ve lost him.” Jaskier lifted his head, looked across the field to where Roach and her colt were huddled just outside the stable. The colt teetered his way across the grass, inspecting the blades with curiosity. Jaskier imagined, for a moment, a world where the colt didn’t exist. Where he had never taken a breath or seen his mother’s face or felt the grass tickle his muzzle. It made Jaskier unbearably sad.

Guilt roiled hot in Jaskier’s stomach as he whispered, “I’m sorry. That was a terrible thing for me to say. I know what Roach means to you.” Jaskier was still learning the ways of Geralt’s wordless language, but he suspected his responding hum forgave Jaskier’s cruelty. It was far more than what he deserved. And still, it did not seem that Geralt was done with him.

“Thank you," breathed Geralt, soft and tender as he had earlier.

“Whatever for?” rasped Jaskier in dismay. As far as he was concerned, his contribution to the situation had been modest at best.

“I couldn’t have delivered the foal on my own. You’re the one who ran for help. And then you kept Roach calm. No doubt she was terrified and your actions helped soothe her enough so we could work.” Geralt’s voice grew thick, then. Perhaps it was just the refraction of the light from the retreating moon, but Jaskier swore he could see Geralt’s eyes growing damp. “Honestly, I can’t even think about what would’ve happened if you weren’t there.”

Something fluttered in Jaskier’s heart then. The phantom of some emotion that his spent little heart just wasn’t ready to feel again just yet. Jaskier breathed, “Ah, well, then I suppose it was my honor. I’m happy just to have helped.”

Silence lapsed between them though it did not feel uncomfortable. It felt like breathing room. Like a moment of reprieve. Together, Jaskier and Geralt sat in companionable silence as they watched the colt explore the world with wonder. It was a heartening sight.

It was Geralt who first spoke again. “That song you sang… it was beautiful.”

“My mother used to sing it when I was child.” Jaskier breathed a quiet laugh, “Strange, I had almost forgotten it until now. I remember it used to make me feel so safe.”

“Then maybe that’s why it came to you. Something in you knew that you needed that feeling," offered Geralt. Jaskier hummed in response. “How did it feel, to sing again?”

Tugging the blanket tighter around himself, Jaskier shrugged once again and said, “I don’t really know. It’s all a right sort of mess at the moment, but I think I feel relieved? I had been so terrified for so long that I had been abandoned by the muses and to find that I had not truly been lost, that combined with-” He paused, waving his hand in a sort of vague all encompassing gesture- “everything, I’m afraid it was a bit too much.”

The sky was beginning to change color now. Less of a black and more of a gray. Dawn could not have been far off now and after the endlessness of this night, the prospect of seeing the sun again lightened Jaskier’s weary heart. The night, however, was not yet finished with Jaskier. If Jaskier wanted to greet the dawn as a new man, there were still some demons in need of exorcizing.

“Geralt?” Jaskier received a hum of reply. “I want to tell you about what happened.”

“You’ve been through enough tonight, Jaskier. Don’t feel that you have to do more than what you’ve already done.”

“No," bit Jaskier, his voice sharper than he intended, like the prick of a needle. Jaskier licked his lips, steadying himself with a slow breath. In, one, two, three. Out, one, two, three. “I’m sick of ignoring it. I’m sick of pretending it doesn’t exist in the hopes that it’ll magically disappear. I need to confront it right here, right now, or I fear I may never be able to move forward.” Jaskier turned to Geralt, his teeth worrying into the soft flesh of his lower lip as he said, “Will you listen?”

Without even a moment of hesitation, Geralt replied, “Of course. Always.”

“It started a couple of years ago,” began Jaskier, his voice a tight whisper. “I started getting these jitters before performances. My fingers felt wrong, like the joints were locking up. It spread to cramping in my muscles. My whole body felt taut like an over-tuned string. I’d pace backstage, jump and shake and do anything to make it feel as though I weren’t slowly petrifying. For a while, I was able to ignore it, but then it spread to my lungs…” Jaskier pressed a hand against his chest, massaged his fingertips absently into the hard plate of his sternum.

Geralt did not touch Jaskier, but shifted ever so slightly closer to his side. The warmth of his presence beside Jaskier was enough of a comfort without being overwhelming to his frayed senses. Jaskier knew, however, were he to only reach out that Geralt would not hesitate to meet him. He swiped his tongue over his lip before he choked out, “It felt like I couldn’t b-breathe.” Even now he could feel that familiar vice, his ribs closing around the tenderness of his lungs like the teeth of a bear trap.

“Deep breaths, Jaskier, steady breaths,” Geralt rumbled low and soothing, like a great house cat purring in the lap of its owner. “You’re safe here, remember that.”

Nodding his head, Jaskier drew a breath through his nose and pushed it out between the purse of his lips. In, one, two, three. Out, one, two, three. When the snare of his ribcage loosened, Jaskier continued, “I went to the doctor. Several doctors, actually, fearing that something was horrifically wrong with me. After all the serendipity of my life, I believed fate had come to knock me from my perch. But my tests came back normal. Passed the evaluations with flying colors. I was fit as a fiddle in every physical way which, of course, left only one conclusion…” Jaskier could still remember the look on the doctor’s face, the flat press of his lips, the furrow of his graying brows. Pity. He had looked at Jaskier with such pity that one would’ve thought he had diagnosed Jaskier with a terminal illness. The memory made his skin itch. Set his teeth on edge.

“Just because an illness is categorized as mental does not make your physical symptoms any less legitimate," assured Geralt.

Jaskier laughed, a bitter thing like the snap of a twig. “That certainly isn’t the way I was made to feel about it. He made it seem as though it were a thing I could simply will away. Something as mundane as resisting the urge to drink excessively or eat a second helping of cake.” Jaskier pressed his face into the curve of his palms, pushing his fingers up to rake through the sheaf of his hair. “And I tried, I really fucking tried, but it was bleeding into everything. I started having trouble sleeping, I didn’t even want to think about eating, and that just made everything worse. A vicious, unending cycle.

“They tried giving me medication and even that was like petrol on a campfire. I swung violently between so dazed I could barely keep focused and so restless I felt ready to jump out of my own skin.” Jaskier clenched his fists in his hair, centered himself on the pull of his scalp. The numbness inside him was wearing, like nerves reawakening in a sleeping limb.

“It got to the point where I dreaded performing. Was utterly petrified of it. Would I be able to make it through without breaking down? Would my fingers fumble on the frets? Could I collect the breath needed to sing? There were hundreds of people- thousands, tens of thousands- all there to see me perform. Me. And I felt like I couldn’t remember the words to my own songs. Couldn’t remember the chord progressions I had written with my own hands.”

Jaskier began to tremble, starting in the bounce of his heel to his knee then up and through him like the shifting of tectonic plates becoming an earthquake on the surface of the Earth above. “And then came that festival, oh that bloody festival. I had been going on my fourth night with no sleep and was subsisting on a diet of coffee to combat the exhaustion and protein shakes because I couldn’t bear to eat anything solid without it feeling like a rock in my stomach.

“And Madeleine, dear thing, was trying everything she could to help me, but I was entirely shot. The only thing that could have helped me at that point was a hard blow to the back of the head, honestly. Madeleine tried to convince me to back out, but I… I couldn’t do that. I was the headliner, Geralt. The headliner! Thousands of people had waited all day and paid good money just to see me."

Jaskier wrung his hands together, the nails of his left hand leaving little pink lines where they scratched over the back of his right. “My fans, they mean everything to me. They’re the loveliest people and I would still be busking on street corners and playing wedding receptions were it not for them. And so, the show went on. I… I can’t remember everything from that night. It’s like flashes from a drunken bender or a nightmare. I remember the lights being inordinately bright. The jack on one of the amplifiers must not have been plugged in correctly and it was buzzing in my skull like a scream. I was so dazed I couldn’t remember which song we were opening with… I think I played a few chords, but after that it’s all…” Jaskier’s words trailed off, disappearing into the air like wisps of smoke. He stared vaguely off into the distance, the world in his periphery bleeding into an amalgamation of shapes and shades of blue and gray. He felt himself drifting, floating somewhere between awareness and oblivion.

Then, in the gentlest of tones, Geralt asked, “Tell me, Jaskier… when did you stop singing for yourself?”

“I-I don’t…”

Geralt’s brows furrowed, his eyes bright and gleaming as they bore into Jaskier and he reiterated, “When did you stop singing for yourself?”

Jaskier found himself at a loss, bewildered by Geralt’s strange question. Of course Jaskier sang for himself and always had. It was his greatest passion, his most laudable talent. He had been born with a song in his heart and he had been singing it from the moment he had drawn his first breath. Sure, Jaskier could have been something simple and mundane like an accountant or a teacher, but he had chosen this life because it was meant for him. Music was not only a passion, it was the sun at the very center of his being. The thing around which all others revolved. Without it, Jaskier would not be Jaskier.

Seeing Jaskier’s confusion, Geralt tried to clarify, “Earlier, when I talked about looking at things through the scope of yourself, this is the thing I mean. Implying that you stopped singing for yourself entirely may be an extreme. I know it’s still something you love, but there came a point where the expectations of your career overpowered it. It wasn’t only about creating music for the love of it, it also became about fulfilling your contracts, performing, selling albums, and satisfying your fans. That’s a lot of pressure.”

Tugging the blanket tighter around his shoulders, Jaskier looked away. What Geralt was saying did make a lot of sense, but it still felt wrong. Felt wrong in the way an improperly sized coat felt wrong. It kept out the cold and staved off the rain, but the sleeves were too long and the hem dragged in the mud. “But I… those were the things that motivated me. I wouldn’t have pushed myself so hard had I thought there was no one who wanted to hear me…”

“I understand and it’s good to have things that drive us, but… think, when’s the last time you sang just for the fun of it? Where you didn’t think about where a song would place on the charts or whether it would play repeatedly on the radio?”

Jaskier opened his mouth, prepared for an answer to appear like magic on his tongue, but nothing emerged beyond a weak puff of breath. He carded through his most recent memories, then further going back weeks, months, years all in a desperate search for an answer. He came up with nothing. Every whistle, every hum, even the mindless drum of his fingers seemed to always hold an underlying purpose- what could be made from it? Could this melody become his next hit? Could this rhythm make for a good baseline or a drumbeat? Jaskier couldn’t recall a recent time where he simply let the music flow through him without thought of what it could become. To just let it out into the world without pretense or expectation. To do nothing more than revel in the release and joy of just making noise.

The fence creaked beneath them as Geralt shifted his weight, drawing Jaskier back to the present, “Gods, you’re right,” He wheezed like the breath had been knocked from him, “you’re right about all of it. I love making music, always have and always will, but I can’t remember the last time I just enjoyed it for what it was. Where I just sang for the fun of it…”

“Alright, then how about we try it?” suggested Geralt and Jaskier blinked at him, bewildered by it.

“Wait, you mean… like now? Like, right now?”

The corner of Geralt’s mouth twitched, pulling up into a charming little grin. “If you’re feeling up to it. It could be anything. A jingle from a commercial or a couple scales. It could be the most random assortment of notes you can think of. The first that pops into your head. Don’t think about the things it could be, just enjoy it for what it is.”

And Jaskier felt very small then, like a child standing at the edge of the pool working up the courage to dive in. He could swim, he knew that he could, yet the deep blue of the water’s depth made him doubt himself. Could Jaskier let go of all his doubts and insecurities to just let himself sing? A weight settled warm and steady just above Jaskier’s knee. He looked down to see Geralt’s hand, placed just as it had been earlier in the living room with his thumb brushing against the ridge of the bone.

Jaskier closed his eyes and drew a steadying breath, doing his best to relax the muscles in his neck and shoulders. He opened his mouth, felt the shape of the sound where it sat stuck at the base of his vocal chords. He willed it up, fought to expel it from his throat not much unlike, he thought with mild disgust, a cat trying to cough up a hairball. Jaskier swallowed thickly. “S-sorry, this is harder for some reason. It felt easier when I had less time to think about it…” And Geralt didn’t shame him for it. Only waited patiently, his thumb keeping up its short, even strokes against Jaskier’s knee like a metronome keeping time.

Trying again, Jaskier gave his throat a good, hard clearing. He just had to jump. He just had to make a sound. The longer he sat there thinking the harder it would become. The deeper the water would seem.

The note burst from Jaskier’s lips like a firework, quick and exuberant. The sound of it echoed into the night, startling the colt and interrupting his grass inspection. He raised his fuzzy head, his ears perked and attentive. Jaskier grinned at Geralt sheepishly, “S-sorry, that wasn’t very good was it?”

“Did it make you feel good?” Asked Geralt and, tentatively, Jaskier nodded his head. Then with all the tenderness and sincerity in the world, Geralt replied, “Then it was beautiful.” And that made Jaskier’s heart flutter, quick and brilliant like bird wings. It couldn’t have been true, but still it emboldened him. And so he tried it again, finding it somewhat easier this time around.

One note turned into two turned into three until Jaskier was singing whole melodies. He sang all the scales from major and minor to harmonic and melodic. He sang the jingle for Little Whiskers cat treats. A Tousaintoise nursery rhyme meant to help children learn their colors. An old Redanian folk song his grandmother used to sing whenever she made potato dumplings. An assortment of arbitrary notes spanning from the heights to the depths of his vocal range and everywhere in between.

At some point Jaskier had slid from his perch on the fence and had wandered into the grassy field. He puffed out his chest, raised his chin, and threw open his arms. He swayed and spun, the blanket still wrapped around his shoulders like a shawl with the tassels bouncing against his chest. And he sang and sang and sang. And it felt fresh and new. It felt worn and familiar. His voice was raw and weary from disuse, but Jaskier found he didn’t care much. The joy it felt to just sing, to make noise for nothing else other than the fuck of it made him feel alive in a way he hadn’t felt in months.

By the end of it, Jaskier was flushed and panting, the chill of the early morning air turning his breaths into clouds of mist. It felt like clouds of smoke, like he was breathing fire. And Jaskier tipped his head to the sky where the first rays of dawn were cutting into the fading gray of the night and simply let himself be in that moment. Simply let himself exist. No past, no future, just the present.

Jaskier turned back to Geralt, the man looking back at him with such a look of pride it made his heart swell. This man, this man had saved him. What rotten work it must have been, but he hadn’t given up. Never faltered in the conviction that Jaskier was capable of experiencing happiness once again. What Jaskier had done to earn that kind of devotion, he didn’t know, but whatever it was he couldn’t have been more grateful to Geralt who stood there with the breaking dawn casting his pale hair in soft shades of pink and gold. He was beautiful, so very beautiful.

Crossing back to the fence, Jaskier took Geralt’s hands within his own and in a moment of blind euphoria pressed his lips to Geralt’s knuckles. “Thank you,” He uttered, his voice teetering on the edge of a whimper, “You helped me find my song again.”

It may have been the reflection of the early morning light, but Jaskier could’ve sworn Geralt’s eyes looked wet. He didn’t get to inspect further for Geralt was tugging on Jaskier’s hands, drawing him in against his chest and holding him in an embrace. With his head a little clearer, Jaskier could enjoy how it felt to be fitted against Geralt’s frame. The dips and curves of their bodies seemed almost matched to each other, like two halves long separated made whole once again. Jaskier tucked his chin in the crook of Geralt’s shoulder and breathed in the fullest breath he could, holding onto it and the feeling of his chest flush against Geralt’s. The sun at last broke over the horizon as they stood there locked into the circle of each other’s arms. And it felt like a revelation. The long night had at last ended and here, once again, was the sun.

Geralt stumbled forward into Jaskier, his grip growing instinctively tighter in an effort to keep them both from falling forward. Jaskier lifted his head and was shocked to be met with Roach’s white lipped muzzle. She had appeared behind Geralt, nickering and bumping her head between his shoulder blades in a bid for his attention.

Jaskier chuckled, reaching his hand out behind Geralt and running a hand up the stripe of Roach’s face, “Oh, I’m so sorry, my love. I didn’t mean to steal Geralt from you. If anyone should be getting all the affection it should be you.” And Roach snorted in response as if she agreed. Geralt and Jaskier reluctantly extricated themselves from each other. Geralt’s warmth still lingered over Jaskier’s chest and he felt cold without it. He wrapped the blanket more tightly around himself, but it did little to help. It wasn’t the sort of chill that could be fixed by something like a blanket.

Reaching his hands under the curve of her jaw, Geralt pressed his forehead to Roach’s and Jaskier found himself once again struck by the bond the two of them shared. “That’s my girl,” He murmured, sliding his palms down either side of her neck in long strokes, “You did so well.” And she snorted in approval, clearly enjoying his ministrations.

The foal stood just behind his mother on his new, unsteady legs. It was obvious his mother was comfortable with this company, but it seemed he was not yet sure what to make of them. Jaskier kneeled down to make himself seem more approachable, holding out a placating hand and clicking his tongue, “C’mon, sweetling, no need to be afraid.” The foal swished his tail, flicked his ears. He took a step forward and then one back, caught between his curiosity and his fear. In the end, it seemed his curiosity won out and he stumbled to Jaskier and pressed his soft muzzle into Jaskier’s waiting palm.

“Little guy’s gonna need a name," said Geralt, brushing a hand down the colt’s stiff mane. “Any suggestions?”

Jaskier blinked. “You want me to name him?” and Geralt confirmed with the incline of his head. “Wow, what an honor. Alright, little one, what shall we call you? There’s absolutely no pressure since this is only the name you’ll have for the rest of your life, so…” Jaskier looked the colt up and down, trying to draw up some inspiration. His coat was a shade or two darker than his mothers, his frame lean and lanky, and he had a patch of white between his eyes that looked a bit like a blossoming flower. Jaskier hummed, pressing a knuckle against the bow of his lips as he thought and eventually said, “Dandelion. A spot of brightness in an otherwise dark landscape and resilient as all hell.”

Geralt hummed appraisingly, “It’s settled, then. Dandelion it is.”

****

“You don’t have to sing it right, but who could call you wrong? Just put your emptiness to melody, your awful heart to song. You don’t have to sing it nice, but honey sing it stro- o-oi knock it off!” Jaskier yelped as he teetered precariously from his perch at the top rung of the corral fence. It didn’t help that he had his guitar in his lap and was trying desperately to keep it from slipping his grasp and falling into the mud below.

Dandelion looked rather pleased with himself, snorting and swishing his stubby tail as he nudged playfully at Jaskier’s legs. Jaskier was not paying him enough attention and he wanted Jaskier to know it. Grinning despite his close brush with catastrophe, Jaskier laughed. “You cheeky little thing! Fancy yourself a critic, now do you?” Dandelion flicked his ears and nickered. “Oh, I see how it is. While I value your opinion as a friend, I’m choosing to ignore it because you’re only a week old and haven’t been exposed to enough music to really know anything.”

It seemed Dandelion wasn’t interested in any form of intelligent conversation, only silly times. He rubbed his fuzzy head against Jaskier’s legs, flicking his ears and snorting hot, damp breaths. It was rather endearing up until the moment Dandelion started to nip at the leg of Jaskier’s trousers. “Little scamp! Just wait until your mother hears about your naughty behavior. I assure you, she won’t be pleased.”

A high whistle pierced the air. Dandelion bolted upright, ears perked at full attention. Across the field, Geralt was striding towards them with Roach loping dutifully beside him. “Speak of the devil. You’re in for it now, love.” But Dandelion didn’t care much for anything else Jaskier had to say. He took off across the field, tossing his head and letting out peals of high pitched whinnies. He skittered around Geralt and Roach, his little hooves kicking up the dirt. Geralt grinned, ruffling Dandelion’s short, wiry mane as the foal pranced by and settled himself beneath Roach for a little midmorning snack.

Jaskier watched as Geralt continued towards him, pretending not to be mesmerized by the sway of his hips or the otherworldly glow of his hair in the sunlight. Folding his arms over his chest, Geralt leaned beside Jaskier on the fence. The smell of his cologne carried on the breeze and made Jaskier lightheaded in a pleasant, drunken kind of way. “Look at you. Becoming a morning person are you?” Geralt asked with amusement.

“It’s a wonder how a couple good nights of sleep can change a man. Truly. I hardly recognize myself without the bags under my eyes.” Geralt shook his head, but his exasperation was nothing more than a ruse to mask his endearment. Jaskier’s heart fluttered with thrill at the knowledge that he was getting under Geralt’s skin.

“All packed?” asked Geralt, something flashing in his eyes as they looked out across the field. Jaskier could not explain it, but it made something tighten in his chest.

“Just about,” replied Jaskier, somewhat solemnly. The room he had called his own for the last month was clean of his belongings save for the few items he would need in the morning before he was collected. It felt bittersweet. Jaskier was never meant to stay here forever and his leaving meant that he was recovered enough to return to his normal life. Still, he couldn’t help the twinge of melancholy as he took his books from the windowsill and his shoes from beside the door. Jaskier’s clothes had smelled like cedar as he packed them into his traveling case. He wondered how long the scent would linger. How many times would he be able to press his nose into the folds and remember something simpler?

“Feeling nervous?” asked Geralt, his brow arched.

Shrugging, Jaskier replied, “I would be lying if I said I wasn’t, but it would be as much of a lie to say that I wasn’t excited as well. I feel ready to get back out there. To take what I’ve learned here and start things fresh.” In his heart of hearts, Jaskier was an artist. An entertainer. He thrived off the attentions of an adoring public in the way a flower thrived in the shine of the sun. And, beyond that, Jaskier had a more magnanimous plan in mind for his grand return to the stage. “I want to share my story. Full exposure, no modifications or redactions. Once, I would have been ashamed of my condition, but I’m not now. I think it’s important to be candid about what has been happening and why I was gone.”

Geralt looked surprised, brows raising as he cautioned, “That won’t be an easy road, you know. As unfortunate as it is, the world isn’t very kind or understanding towards those struggling with mental illness.”

“I know,” Jaskier affirmed, tossing Geralt a sprightly smile, “but I’ve never found any interest in taking the easy road. Besides…” and Jaskier grew pensive then, staring into the creases of his palms. His skin had grown thicker in the last month. A testament to what he had endured here and how it had made him stronger. “It’s important to share a story like mine. If what you say is true and millions of people are struggling as I am, then those people will need an advocate. Surely not everyone will have someone to help them through it like I’ve had you. If I can help just one person through my song or my speech or my actions, then I will be satisfied.” Geralt smiled at him with all the radiance of the sun. It was enough that warmth pooled sweet and content in the pit of Jaskier’s belly.

“I’ve got something for you.” Geralt dug into his pocket and withdrew a cellphone. Jaskier’s cell phone. He very nearly didn’t recognize the thing despite it bearing his signature buttercup print case. Geralt held it out, and Jaskier, hesitantly, took it. After a month without it, the shape and weight of it felt strange within his grasp. “Figured you’d be needing it back. You’re going to have to keep in touch with us somehow.”

An ache swelled in Jaskier’s heart. Having his phone back felt like a finality, a reminder that this little dream was coming to an end. But it was bittersweet, because even though his time at Kaer Morhen was ending, it seemed Geralt was not through with him yet. Chuckling, Jaskier said, “Have you any idea what you’re inviting? I’ll be texting you constantly.”

“Ciri’s always complaining about how bad I am at it. It’ll give me the chance to practice.”

“I’m utter rubbish at remembering time changes, too. I’m sure at some point I’ll end up calling you at an absurd hour by mistake babbling about a beach I visited or something else trival.”

“Like the animals don’t already keep me up at all kinds of hours? I’m used to it. And I haven’t traveled much so I’d be interested to hear about some of the places you go.”

Jaskier sighed, “Very well, then allow me this in return. Each show, every show, I’ll make sure everyone in my entourage knows that you’re to be given unrestricted backstage access wherever I am. And I can arrange anything else you require, as well. Flights, hotels. There’s no limits for you, dear friend. I’d move heaven and Earth if only you asked it of me.”

Geralt chuckled, a soft sound like the rumble of thunder, “Have you any idea what you’re inviting?” And, were he a braver man, Jaskier swore he could have kissed that man silly. Oh, that would have taught Geralt a lesson in being a smartass. But that seemed like a boundary Jaskier wasn’t meant to cross. Or maybe it was. He was still thinking about it.

“Oh, I’ve an idea given Ciri’s tenacity, but I feel it’s the least I can do.” Nothing would ever feel adequate enough to express his gratitude to Geralt and his family, but damn if he wasn’t still going to try. “And perhaps you can even see one of those beaches. The coast can be a lovely place to visit.”

And Geralt hummed his approval, his eyes warm and clear like honey in the sunlight. And it wasn’t for the first time that day that Jaskier marveled at how truly handsome Geralt was. Geralt’s gaze flickered down to the phone still sitting awkwardly in Jaskier’s palm. “Well,” he began, almost as if it were a challenge. “Aren’t you going to turn it on? I’m sure you’re dying to know what’s been going on in the world since you’ve been away.”

Jaskier looked down at his phone. The blackness of the screen reflected the world around him. The blue sky and its candy floss clouds. The glass green shards of leaves from the nearby tree. Geralt and his starlight colored hair and his honey colored eyes. “No,” Jaskier finally said. “No, I don’t think I will. I think I’d just like to be here in this moment… with you.”

With pink cheeks, Geralt cleared his throat. “G-good, good I’m glad you’re putting yourself first. You’ve grown so much since you first came here. Out of all the people who’ve come here for help, I can’t say I’ve ever felt this way about them-” Jaskier’s heart jumped. Geralt seemed to notice the implication of his choice of words and scrambled to clarify, “T-that is to say I… I’m proud of you, Jaskier.”

And Jaskier’s heart swelled in his chest, full enough that he believed it could lift him from his feet and pull him up into the boundless blue above. It took a moment for him to get a breath in around the girth of his heart, but at least Jaskier breathed, “Wow, I… I don’t know what to say except… thank you, Geralt. For everything.”

The corner of Geralt’s mouth curled sheepishly as he shrugged. “You did all the hard work. I just gave you a little push in the right direction.”

Jaskier barked a wet laugh, finding himself feeling rather sentimental all of a sudden. He rubbed the heel of his hand against his eye. “Can’t you just take my thanks? You’re far too humble. I dare say a little egotism might do you some good.”

Silence settled between them, light and serene like a sheet of fresh fallen snow. They were so close to one another. Geralt’s face was angled up towards him, the sunlight playing off the sharp planes of his face and giving him a softer appearance. His eyes were hooded, translucent lashes shimmering as they brushed the tops of cheeks when he blinked at Jaskier entrancingly. The bow of his lips was such a tempting shape and Jaskier wondered what it would be like to follow the curve with his thumb. With his tongue.

“Oh, fuck it.” And Jaskier took Geralt’s face between his hands, pressing their lips together in a fervent rush. For a brief, excruciating moment, Jaskier feared that he had perhaps read the atmosphere wrong, Geralt growing still as stone against him. But just as Jaskier was about to pull away, a string of apologies already forming on his tongue, Geralt’s hand snuck behind Jaskier’s head and pushed them back together. He licked eagerly into Jaskier’s mouth, their chins and noses bumping in their passion. Geralt’s tongue tasted like coffee and the scrape of his stubble against Jaskier’s chin made him shiver with delight. He felt like a teenager again getting his first real kiss behind the stands at a football match.

“I’m sorry,” Jaskier gasped when at last they seperated, cheeks flushed and lips swelling. “That may have been a bit impulsive of me-”

“No,” soothed Geralt, pressing his hands over Jaskier’s where they had remained bracketed either side of his face. “No, I’ve been wanting to do that for days, but I was trying to be professional.”

“Fuck that." declared Jaskier unabashedly, making Geralt laugh.

Leaning forward, Geralt pressed his forehead to Jaskier’s. “Well, if that’s the case, then I would very much like to kiss you again.” The rumble of his voice sent a thrill through Jaskier, sparking in his nerve endings like little static shocks.

“Oh, I would like very much for you to kiss me again.” Jaskier grinned as he wound his arms around Geralt’s shoulders, drawing him closer and combing his fingers through the silken sheaf of Geralt’s hair. It was just as soft as Jaskier had imagined and that left him feeling absolutely delighted. Jaskier’s fingers were still working through Geralt’s hair as he hummed, “And then I’d like you to kiss me again after that. And again after that. And again after-”

And Geralt silenced him with the insistent press of his mouth. Jaskier grinned like a fool against the kiss, laughter rising like bubbles in his throat. Somewhere, deep in the back of his mind, Jaskier worried over the logistics of all this. Long distance was not an easy path to take. There would surely be many nights where Jaskier would long for Geralt’s touch and kiss. But Jaskier was doing his best to be a different man, now. Those bridges could be crossed when he came to them, but for now he focused on savoring everything for how it was right then in that moment. The bittersweet taste of Geralt’s mouth, the heady musk of his cologne, the maddening little hums that rumbled in the back of his throat.

The moment was interrupted by a distinctive snort and Geralt and Jaskier turned in unison to see little Dandelion standing before them. His head was cocked, ears perked in fascination. Geralt sighed with fond exasperation while Jaskier waved his hand at the little colt. “Off with you now, Dandelion, this isn’t something children should see.” And Geralt laughed soft and captivating as he pulled Jaskier in for yet another kiss.

#the witcher #Geraskier #geralt x jaskier #jaskier minibang #jmb2022 #fanficition #hurt/comfort #anxiety disorder #panic attacks #fluff #modern AU

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yaskefer · 2 years

Text

sons and seams and symphonies

read on ao3

This is my contribution to the Jaskier Mini Bang 2022 (@jaskierminibang) my first fandom event ever! Super excited to share this fic with you, along with the basolutely stunning decoupage art @nadik1 did for it that you can check out here.

summary: When Renfri escapes Stregobor’s men, she leaves behind a brother. Stregobor compensates. When Geralt enters the tower at Blaviken, he senses the presence of another being other than the mage and his illusions. The two things are connected.

Renfri had messed up her stitches again. They were uneven and did not look like flowers at all, and her fingers were sore from the dozen times she’d pricked them. She stuck her index finger in her mouth, sucking on it and scowling. She’d much rather be with Jaskier right now, playing knights and brigands, maybe. Or try to train Daisy with as many wrong commands as possible to annoy the stablemaster.

She blew out a noisy breath, setting down the ruined embroidery work, and stood up. Technically, she didn’t need to be doing needlework right now. But she needed to show Jaskier that she could do it. If he could make recognisable buttercups in straight rows across a long piece of ribbon, she could at least stitch one recognisable flower.

She reached back to touch said ribbon, currently tied around her hair, keeping it out of her eyes. It was a simple ponytail, something both Jaskier and their stepmother disliked. Jaskier wasn’t allowed to keep his hair long, so he always wanted to play with Renfri’s, who’d rather have it cut short halfway to her ear, but wasn’t allowed to.

Sometimes she wished she could swap places with Jaskier. She knew Jaskier would agree too.

The door to her room flew open, and Jaskier strode in. He paused when he saw her abandoned needlework, before leaning over to take a better look at it, brows furrowed.

"Judging by the colours, you were trying to draw flowers. But judging by the shape, maybe you were having a go at Lady Aridea's hair," he proclaimed finally.

Renfri let out a snort, and Jaskier snatched up the piece. He took up the needle and started undoing the stitches. Fixing them, properly.

Renfri cast a worried look at the door, "What if someone sees you?" she hissed at him, moving to shut the door before anyone could look in. Jaskier already got punished enough for not being 'manly' enough, whatever the fuck that meant. If someone saw him sewing, they'd both be in for it.

"Hush, it'll be fine. If someone comes in I'll just tell them I was making fun of you." He bit down on his lips, fingers moving effortlessly through the threads, doing and undoing them so fast that trying to keep track proved impossible. "It's not too bad," he said, "It's just…" he looked up at her, badly hiding a grin as he coughed very deliberately.

"Aren't you supposed to be learning accounts or something," Renfri shot back, annoyed.

Jaskier waved his hand dismissively, "I have to leave something good for you, don't I? Can't take all the spotlight."

Renfri aimed a swat at his head, which he deftly dodged. She could see some silly retort on his lips, but didn't let him speak it before throwing a pillow at him, which struck him right in the middle of his face.

Jaskier spluttered, Renfri laughed, and for a moment, she didn't have to worry about the black sun, or the creepy old mage, or the hate always colouring Lady Aridea's eyes.

---

Jaskier stared blankly at the wall in front of him, counting his breaths slowly. In for the count of three, hold for three, and out for three. It wasn’t really helping, but he could feel himself going numb.

These were the things he knew; the mage– Stregobor– was talking to his father and stepmother. Renfri was gone, and Renfri hated Stregobor.

Stregobor was here, and Renfri was gone.

She hadn’t said anything to him. He woke up that day to see her gone, which wasn’t unusual in itself, except she’d never come back to her room the night before. He’d gone to her room to show her his new piece, a handkerchief with the tiniest birds stitched along the sides, and she hadn’t been there. She hadn’t been there in the morning either.

And then there had been a lot of chaos, with Stregobor at the head of it.

When the door to the room opened, Jaskier didn’t look up, but he knew who it was. There was something about the man that seemed to suck all joy and life out of the room whenever he entered. Something about him that made you suffocate.

“Well, Julian,” he said, and finally, Jaskier looked up. Stregobor had the nastiest grin on his face, “Looks like you’re coming with me.”

Jaskier froze, staring at Stregobor, as icy cold fingers gripped his heart and squeezed. “No,” he said automatically.

Stregobor frowned, “Come now, Julian, don’t be difficult. You know what your sister did. Creyden doesn’t need a prince like you.”

“No one needs a sorcerer like you either.” Jaskier thrust up his chin. He’d leave, he’d leave that day, no one cared anyway. He’d leave and find Renfri. And they’d run away together. He didn’t know what Stregobor had done to her, but he’d find her and, knowing Renfri, make Stregobor pay.

He never wanted to be a prince anyway, so confirmation that even his father didn’t want him didn’t quite phase him.

“You’ve got quite a mouth on you, don’t you?” Stregobor said idly, taking a step closer to him. Jaskier willed himself to stay still. “Just like your sister. It won’t serve you well.”

Jaskier stiffened, “Ren did nothing wrong.”

“You would say that, wouldn’t you?”

Jaskier lurched to his feet and snarled at him, “Fuck you! Fuck you to hell and back.”

Stregobor just gave him a half smile, his quirked lips a cruel slash against an even crueller face.

---

It was a beautiful day, and the sun felt good on her face, warm and bright, colours visible even through her closed lids. Renfri could hear a stream running nearby, crouched down on the ground, barefoot with her toes curling against the soft, cool soil. Her hands were buried in it as well, her britches rolled halfway up her calves.

The britches had been made with Jaskier in mind, but it didn’t really matter. They often exchanged clothes, often enough that they practically had the same wardrobe.

It was late afternoon, almost evening, now. The sun hanging low, the sky just starting to turn into a beautiful shade of orange, lighting up her hair a brilliant crimson. She was waiting for Jaskier, they were supposed to hunt for frogs in the stream after his fencing lessons were done.

When she finally heard footsteps behind her, as familiar to her as her own heartbeat, she rose and turned with a smile.

The smile slipped off her face like water through cupped hands when she noted his red-rimmed eyes and the dark red mark on his cheek. It would definitely bruise later.

Jaskier gave her a watery smile, coming closer as he started rolling up his sleeves to go catch frogs. Like nothing had happened to derail their plans.

Oh no, so not happening. She grabbed him by the wrist, yanking him to a stop before he could step into the water. He hadn’t even rolled up his britches yet, Lady Aridea would be apocalyptic if they went back with muddied clothes.

She raised a hand to Jaskier’s cheek, her fingers leaving a muddy smear across pale skin. She gritted her teeth as his smile turned more genuine.

“I’m going to kill him,” she said, seething. How could their father allow it? How could he just… let others hurt his children? Did they not matter? Were they not his firstborn? And she could get it, she could, his disregard for her. She was a girl, a woman, more a bargaining chip than anything. But Jaskier? Why did no one care about him?

“I’d love to watch,” Jaskier grinned, showing teeth, this time. He grabbed her hand and tugged it down, “Let's go catch some frogs to put in Aridea’s bed now.”

---

The room he’d been given was cold. Goosebumps erupted across Jaskier’s skin, and his teeth would have chattered if it weren’t for the gag Stregobor had stuffed in his mouth; dry, rough, and foul-tasting. He shivered and shuddered, the lightest of movements making the too-tight ropes chaff against his already bruised wrist and ankles.

The ceiling was high enough to be intimidating, to make him feel small, cowed, almost. He couldn’t even lift his hands up to wipe the angry tears from his face.

Stregobor hadn’t done anything to him, not really. Just tied him up, gagged him when he started screaming profanities at the man, and put him in this cell. Stonewalled, windowless, and cold as fuck. He’d even stripped his shoes, socks, and doublet from him, leaving him only in his chemise and britches.

It would have been a cell, he supposed, if it weren’t for the perfectly ordinary wooden door instead of metal bars.

It didn’t really matter, though. Not the cold, not the gag, not the rope burns around his wrist and ankles, not the fact that he’d been essentially disowned, not the fact that he would never go home again.

What mattered was that he would never see Renfri again. He didn’t think he would. Stregobor had taken them far away from Creyden, the portal causing an instant change of temperature and making Jaskier lurch and retch until he couldn’t throw up anymore. Far far away from home.

He didn’t even know if Renfri was alive. He knew she’d run away, and she knew the woods, like Jaskier, like the back of her hand. But they were only 14, and one could only do so much with trained men after them.

He shuddered, more tears leaking out of his eyes. He didn’t want to cry, he didn’t, didn’t want to give Stregobor the satisfaction of seeing him cry if he were to burst into the room. But if he didn’t grieve for Renfri, no one would. If he didn’t cry for her, no one would.

He couldn’t just… let go of her like this.

So he cried, and shuddered, and sobbed until the tears ran dry. And then he cried some more.

---

“See?” Jaskier said, grinning at her, “It’s pretty. And deadly. Like you.”

Renfri laughed, her fingers running delicately over the ornate hilt of the dagger, “You’re just complimenting yourself, you know?”

Jaskier snorted, “I’m not deadly though. I can’t even fence properly. You’re the one who manages to copy Sir Frederick just from looking at us practice.”

Renfri shrugged, pleased at the praise but unwilling to admit it. And anyway, Jaskier was a lot better at her in the things she was supposed to be good at, so that made them even.

She couldn’t stop running her fingers over the knife, the hilt starting to warm with her constant touch. There was a beautiful, bright red ruby embedded in it, the colour of blood. Her favourite colour. She didn’t ask where Jaskier had gotten it. She just knew he had gotten it for her, and she knew he must have paid some sort of price for it, or he wouldn’t have given it to her as such a reverent gift. It was a beautiful thing, nearly as beautiful as her mother’s ornate brooch.

It wasn’t very long, the hilt and the blade making up roughly the length of her forearm. It was double-bladed, sharp, clean, and gleaming. One side of it was silver, the other steel.

She could feel a lump in her throat, tears starting to gather in her eyes.

Jaskier noticed, because of course he did, and beamed at her, “C’mon then, are you going to show me how to skin rabbits with it now?”

Renfri laughed wetly and shoved him backward.

She loved Jaskier so much that sometimes it hurt. She loved him to the point of destruction, and she knew without a doubt that there was very little she wouldn’t do for him. The thought didn’t scare her, as it perhaps should have. He deserved it, he deserved someone who would be willing to go to the ends of the world for him.

Why would it scare her?

She was already a monster, why not be a monster for a worthy cause?

The ribbon he’d embroidered for her was warm around her wrist, a constant reminder of his love for her as well, and now this.

She’d have to get a sheath made for it, and maybe a belt she can attach it to, or some sort of pockets in her skirts or britches she could put it in. She’d watch the knights and soldiers training more carefully, better, not just the idiot teaching Jaskier fencing. She had a dagger now, she’d best learn how to use it as well.

Worthy causes.

---

There was a girl. There were the woods. And there was a girl running through the woods.

Renfri’s breaths dragged out of her in painful, panting sobs as she ran, and ran, and ran. Her legs ached and cramped horribly, her fingers white-knuckled around the dagger Jaskier had given her, a stitch in her side that made breathing harder with every pounding step she took.

By Lilith’s name, she will fucking kill Stregobor, she will murder him, she’ll murder him with the same knife Jaskier had given her, she’ll shove it up that fucker’s arse, she’ll–

Renfri tripped over another tree root, her third in however many minutes she’d been running for. She landed on her hands and knees, her dagger flying from her hands and landing a few feet away. Her knees and palms scraped against the forest floor, stinging harshly.

She let out a choked sob, bent almost in double, before taking in a deep breath and straightening up. She crawled over to where her dagger had fallen, wiped her hands on her skirt and picked it back up.

Then she climbed to her feet, took another few deep breaths, and looked around to see if anyone was still pursuing her. She couldn’t hear anything other than the usual forest sounds, but she knew that didn’t mean much.

Her body shook with tremors, and her knees threatened to buckle even as she stood still. The slippers covering her feet were impractical and made her soles hurt. Her dress was thin, it itched in places where the embroidery was done badly along with the frills that had been added in awful places, and there was a long rip running right up to the middle of her thighs.

She turned her head up, letting the sunlight filtering through the tree canopy fall on her face.

Then she resumed running.

---

“We should run away together,” Jaskier said quietly.

They were sitting in Renfri’s bed, pressed against each other. The large window was open, letting in the cool night air and making the little wind chime hanging in her room tinkle pleasantly. A single large blanket was wrapped around both of them, lush and soft and warm. Jaskier was warm as well, and Renfri was happy.

“That’s a nice dream,” Renfri whispered, closing her eyes and letting the cool air rustle through her open hair. She hated braids, the maids always did them up too tight and they pulled at her head and gave her headaches. Taking out the clips and hair ties always led to several yanked-out hairs as well, and her hair was long enough that sometimes it made her head feel heavy.

Jaskier had a hand on her head, and was scratching gently at her irritated and sore scalp. She sighed, and melted a little against him. She could remember their mother doing this for her, very vaguely, more feeling than real memory. But she could remember it.

“I’m serious,” Jaskier said, a small laugh huffing out of him before he turned serious. “It’s not like there’s anything for us here, no one’s gonna miss us.”

“You’re the heir to the throne, why’d you want to run away?” Although she already knew the answer. It wasn’t the first time they were having this conversation. Their life was a bleak one, with rules and confines and helplessness. Running away fantasies were a staple.

“I–” Jaskier turned suddenly, jolting Renfri so she had to straighten up and face Jaskier as well. She missed the calm of his hand on her head, but she paid attention, “This isn’t just a fantasy anymore, Ren. We both know that I’m the heir only in name, we both know Father’s just waiting for Aridea’s son to come of age before he names him heir. And that’s the best case scenario, the one where I remain the second in line and you the third. Worst case would be an accident, to get rid of me, to avoid the scandal of changing the heir. And you? God knows who he’ll just… marry you off to.”

Ice slid down her spine as she stared at Jaskier’s face. He looked scared, more so than she’d seen him before. And he was right, wasn’t he? They were rapidly growing older, nearer to the age when they’d become true threats. When they’d need to be dealt with.

Renfri had already had her first blood, which meant that any moment her father and stepmother might start looking for good marriage alliances for her. To sell her off to the highest bidder.

She couldn't imagine staying away from Jaskier. She couldn’t imagine marrying someone. She couldn’t… she didn’t want to imagine it.

To her mortification, her eyes started stinging with tears, Jaskier’s eyes widening at the sight.

“Ren, I wasn’t trying to– fuck–”

“I know,” she interrupted him, “I know. I just… you’re right. We should. We should run away. But how? You know we’re guarded all the time, right? Most of the time. It’s not like old times anymore, when we were still young enough to get ‘lost’ in the woods and die.”

Which was the only reason they hadn’t been monitored so closely before. The reason they could traverse the woods and play in the mud and try and catch frogs. Because everyone always kept hoping they would fall into a ditch somewhere and die.

But now they were too old to leave alone.

“We’ll find some way, okay? You and I,” Jaskier whispered, leaning his head against Renfri’s forehead, his breath warm on her face.

A wolf howled in the distance, low and mournful.

---

The woman’s screams rang through his ears, making Jaskier wince and writhe on the stone table he had been tied to. His head hurt, pounding in tandem with her shrieks, and he was sure his ears would start bleeding any second.

The screams abruptly cut off, replaced with a low, pained, keening noise, watery and heart-wrenching. Jaskier went limp on the table, furious and terrified. He stared up at the ceiling, a scowl etched on his face as his fingers clenched and unclenched.

Footsteps sounded, and he refused to turn his head to look up as Stregobor’s passive voice spoke, “Well, she isn’t dead yet. So that’s some progress. Your blood does some really strange things, Julian. It’s fascinating.”

Jaskier didn’t speak. Couldn’t speak, what with the bit that the mage had forced into his mouth in response to Jaskier’s threat of biting his tongue off and depriving him of his favourite test subject.

A cold hand rested on his head, and he bucked hard, trying to dislodge the hand. It didn’t budge, only stroking lightly at his sweat-soaked hair.

“You don’t have to work yourself up into such a frenzy, Julian. Why do you care so much about some nameless woman? She won’t be missed. You haven’t even seen her.” He sighed, and removed his hand.

Jaskier squeezed his eyes shut as he felt tears pricking at them. He would have struggled more, but it wouldn't have made a difference. Stregobor always restrained him too well, quite aware that if Jaskier got free then his magic would be useless against him. One could even say he overcompensated, especially against a skinny, malnourished teenager who was probably anaemic with the amount of blood Stregobor drew every day.

It had vindicated Jaskier at first, just how overcautious the bastard was, but now it only meant heavy chains, too little food, and more pain.

“Now,” Stregobor said, his voice grating and self-assured, “Stay still so I can take some more of your blood. I’m sure you can spare a few more vials before we are done for today.”

Jaskier tensed up, bracing himself for more pain. It still never really prepared him for the icy sting of a dagger cutting into the crook of his arm, the smooth, cold press of the vial pressing against the place as blood trickled into it. There was a row of several such neat cuts all across his arm. It wouldn't be long before Stregobor started on the next one.

When he had taken three vials of blood– not that Jaskier could be sure, lost in the haze of pain and fury as he was– Stregobor gave him a sickly smile, “I’ve been studying some things, Julian, and I think I might have made a breakthrough.”

He must have seen something on Jaskier’s face, because his smile widened, “Don’t you worry yourself about any of it, you just have to lay there, and try not to die.”

---

The Court of Creyden didn't have a full-time court mage.

They did have a consultant, someone who came when called and was paid on a case-to-case basis. The mage was always well dressed in expensive, revealing clothes, expertly applied dark make up, her hair open and falling below her waist.

Her clothes were even finer than Lady Aridea's, and looking at her was the only times when Renfri ever felt like dressing up. Because she didn't look like she hurt with every movement, she didn't look meek or stuffy. The mage's movements were fluid, graceful, dangerous. Something Renfri hadn't thought possible to do in as elaborate a dress as the ones she wore.

Renfri liked her. But they weren't really allowed to interact with her.

The only mage she and Jaskier had contact with was Stregobor. The mage who had delivered them both during the eclipse.

He was the worst person she knew. Looking at him made her want to take the dagger Jaskier had given her and jam it into his eyes. It wasn’t like he could do anything to stop her.

It had been a recurring topic, the twins' immunity to magic. Renfri thought she had seen something very, very similar to fear reflecting in Stregobor's eyes. It was subtle, it was quiet, there and gone in a flash. But it was there, and not just once, often.

Whenever she moved too fast, whenever she flashed her dagger, whenever she smiled at him with too much teeth.

It was all too clear in the way he had them stripped down to the barest slip of clothes whenever he came to see them. As if afraid of whatever they could be hiding beneath their clothes.

What a pathetic man, she thought, so very dependent on his magic that he can't contend with two little kids. No one else in the castle was afraid of them. They had contempt for them, yes, plenty of the palace inhabitants had contempt for her and Jaskier, but not fear.

In a way, Stregobor was the weakest man she knew. And she loathed him.

He poked, and he prodded, and spoke like he knew something she didn't. He never saw both Jaskier and Renfri at once. Always only taking one of them with them to the room.

Sometimes he would make them drink fowl little things from shiny little vials, and most of those times they would spend the rest of the day throwing their guts up, while he looked on with a furrowed brow and took notes. Like they were some specimen, some particularly exotic species he was trying to study.

She knew they were, at least for him. Nothing more than anomalies, interesting little creations that shouldn't exist, but did. Freaks of nature. But at least she knew she wasn’t alone. That there were other girls born like her. But there hadn’t been any boys, none except Jaskier.

Which made him quite interesting to Stregobor, and she hated the way he looked at her brother. With hungry eyes, like he couldn’t wait to get his hands on him, like he would love to cut him open and see everything inside.

She grit her teeth, she’d cut off his hands first. She would.

---

Renfri was lost.

She didn’t quite recognise the woods around her, but she didn’t feel like she’d been running for that long either. She’d seen some roads, she’d seen some travellers, but the people varied.

Some, undoubtedly, did belong to Creyden, their accents unmistakable. But there were several others as well, dark skinned and light skinned and men, and women, children, and players, merchants, and farmers, and on one occasion, a really pretty bard in a feathered hat who played the harp.

Their accents were from all over the world, and Renfri only recognised very few of them. Their clothes ranged a variety of different styles, and Renfri saw such exquisite yet practical hairstyles on some people they made her almost regret her decision to hack off her hair up to her ears.

Not like she’d had any choice, after her hair had gotten snagged into some tangled up branches and given her a spectacular cut on the brow. She could never handle her hair before, and she certainly couldn’t now.

It had become exceedingly clear that she couldn’t handle anything at all, really. Her dress hung in tatters around her, filthy and smelling and barely leaving anything up to the imagination. She didn’t think she’d eaten anything in days, but her memory was getting a little hazy, and the ground shook beneath her whenever she walked for longer than a few minutes at a time.

She’d thrown up horribly the last time she’d eaten. Some berries, brightly coloured and distinctly edible from what she knew. They mustn’t have been poison at least, considering she was alive and breathing. Her mouth felt like something had died in there, and her feet were covered in horrible blisters, some broken and bleeding, every step agony.

The sun had dipped low around the horizon, the sky a pretty blend of crimsons and inky purples, and she was starting to shiver. Her gaze was fixed on a little camp made by a lonely traveller. He had a mule, from what she could see, and a nice, cosy little fire going.

It was a well travelled road from what she’d seen. No need to have protection with yourself, no need to be overly cautious. Nothing much dangerous passed through these roads.

The man had food.

She could smell it, even several feet away. Something warm, and salty, maybe. Maybe some bread, or maybe he would even have dried fruits. He looked like the kind of person who carried dried fruits with himself.

He was setting up his bedroll now. Another luxury Renfri missed, with several days of pointy, dirty ground and ticks and bugs crawling all over her. Her back ached constantly and she couldn’t remember the last time she’d not felt tired. She couldn’t remember what it felt like to not be tired.

She swallowed around her dry throat, and tightened her fingers around the knife.

Needs must.

---

Every single day was worse than the last, and somewhere along the way, Jaskier had lost track.

Days and nights tend to blend together when you’re in pain and locked up in a dark and damp windowless room.

He knew they’d moved a few times, being shoved through a portal conscious for some, and waking up in a different room with a completely different temperature during others. Of course, the temperature thing could just be a trick Stregobor was playing on him, but he didn’t think the mage would waste his time on mind games like that.

Physical experimentation was much more fun, after all. Jaskier thought like a human, and Stregobor had no shortage of those.

He had absolutely no idea where he was, and no one else did either. Other than Stregobor, that is. He doubted the other victims Stregobor brought in had any more idea of where they were than Jaskier. He could be rotting away in the bowels of his own father’s castle and no one would be any wiser.

He’d grown weak enough that even the ever paranoid mage didn��t bother chaining him hand and foot, usually only leaving him with a short chain around his leg. He couldn’t really move around the place.

Jaskier lay shaking and shuddering on the floor, every single limb cramping and aching, both cold and hot. He couldn't feel his fingers. They’d burned at first, like he’d dipped them in liquid fire, but after a while the pain had given way to blissful numbness. He’d managed to drag himself a little away from the puddle of vomit, but that had sapped any remaining bits of energy from him.

Stregobor did this often. It wasn’t anything new, he’d done this when they’d been at Creyden’s court as well. But then he’d been a little restrained, by virtue of both him and Renfri being a prince and princess, curse notwithstanding.

Now? Now Stregobor had free reign to try out his more experimental potions. Some left him just unconscious. He didn’t know how long, but he’d just wake up feeling exhausted, missing time he had no way of measuring. Some would do nothing. Absolutely nothing. Some would have him throwing up for hours. Some had bruises sprouting all over his body, turning his limbs black and blue.

On a memorable occasion, one had taken away his sight for… for a really long while. Stregobor had hemmed and hawed and sounded awfully curious, prodding and poking at his face, his mouth and his eyes, drawing enough blood to leave him dizzy and nauseous.

He’d talked about maybe taking an eye out and studying it, but then discarded the idea because magic didn’t work on Jaskier– which involved healing magic as well– and he didn’t want to permanently maim the boy. Not yet, at least.

He’d shuddered and sobbed that day.

He’d also begged for the first time that day.

Jaskier hated thinking about it, the sheer helplessness of not being able to see, of not knowing whether it was permanent or not. It had been worse than being strapped down and force fed potions, worse than listening to people scream as Stregobor forced magic and concoctions into them, experimenting with his blood, worse than the potion currently running through him like hellfire.

The tears had taken hours to stop when he’d woken up to see. See. It hadn’t been permanent.

Stregobor hadn’t been surprised. Which meant he’d known his sight would return. Jaskier didn’t know why he’d expected the mage to tell him that. He was a cruel man with absolutely no regard for Jaskier beyond his value as a test subject, as a peculiarity and abomination. But he’d been unable to help the bitter feeling of betrayal run through him either.

Jaskier lurched up, bile rising in his throat again, burning and vile, making tears stream down his face. He wished Renfri were here. Most of the time, he was glad that she wasn’t. He couldn’t bear to see her suffer the way he was, couldn’t bear to think of everything Stregobor could have been doing to her if they had caught her.

Better dead than this. Better dead than suffering with no end in sight, better dead than treated worse than animal, better dead than having your humanity stripped away. And for what?

To satisfy the curiosity of one human? A human more monster than anything Jaskier had encountered before.

He didn’t move when the door to his cell creaked open, he didn’t move when he heard Stregobor’s footsteps, and he didn’t move when the mage dumped a thin, unconscious man near him.

The man’s face was covered in grime, making it hard to make out any finer features, and set in a peaceful expression that signified a forced magical sleep Jaskier had seen on several of Stregobor’s victims before. The rags he wore were filthy as well, ripped and mended in several places.

Typical, really. Jaskier wasn’t even surprised anymore. Stregobor always chose his victims well, the people no one would think to look for. It was so horribly cliche that on some of the worse days Jaskier could almost laugh about it.

Currently, the pain made it impossible to do much more than hack out coughs that splattered the floor in front of him with blood in tiny droplets, stark crimson against the grey stone floor.

“I have made some advances with regards to you,” Stregobor said mildly. Jaskier ignored him, knowing he would continue regardless of his answer.

Jaskier glared at him as he crouched down delicately, vanishing the mess at his feet with a wave of his hand. He held up two clear glass vials filled with blood.

“Now,” Stregobor said, going in his ‘lecture’ mode, where he would explain the torture he was about to inflict in very fine detail. Only when it suited him, of course. Like it did now. “This is your blood, just a little… modified. I am fairly certain it will not kill you. I have a theory, you see.”

Jaskier squeezed his eyes shut, curling up tighter, trying to block out the mage’s self assured voice, grating on his nerves like nails on board.

“Of course, you’re resistant to magic, and a lot of magical potions as well. Nearly all magical potions, although they affect you a lot more than direct magic does. They’ve never once had the desired effect on you, and your body seems to reject them in increasingly— gruesome, perhaps, certainly messy ways.”

Jaskier peeled his eyes open to see a brief expression of disgust pass over Stregobor’s face, before it settled back into gleeful curiosity. Eager.

“Now, I was thinking, perhaps… Your body is unlikely to reject your own blood, especially if I pour it directly into your veins. Magically altered, the slightest bit. That might give me something more conclusive, won’t it?”

Despite the burning pain consuming Jaskier, his stomach turned to ice, cold fear washing over him as he weakly tried to get away. It wouldn’t matter, of course. He couldn’t get away, his body just refused to accept it.

Stregobor paid no attention to his useless scrambling, “This man right here,” he jerked his head towards the still unconscious person lying a few feet away, limbs askew, “Is also going to receive a vial of the same enchantment, although of his own blood. A comparison, you see? I think I might finally yield some concrete results with regards to you as a naturally mutated human.”

More tears leaked down Jaskier’s face as he tried to snarl at Stregobor in anger, shaking and shuddering. Stregobor looked at him with something akin to pity, mouth twisting a little before settling in a condescending smile, “I know it hurts, Julian. But you have to realise, it’s for your own good, and for humanity’s good. Who knows where we would be now if all the Black Sun princesses had been allowed to run free? And you, Julian, you are my most prized possession, the key to unlocking this mystery, the key to answering so many questions and perhaps even saving the world. Isn’t it better to just resign yourself to it rather than fight every way? I could make it hurt less.”

Jaskier spat out a thick mouthful of blood right onto Stregobor’s pristine robes.

---

The sword is an extension of her arm, and moves as swiftly and easily as her dagger does.

Renfri almost likes it more than the dagger. Almost. But not quite. Nothing will ever exceed her love for her dagger, no weapon so sharp, so dear, as her love for her brother. No fire as cold and eternal as the fire of vengeance that burns within her, whispering into her ears every single day that Stregobor lives.

The first time she had heard of Jaskier’s death, she had… stopped.

Everything had stopped. The world had gone very, very still around her, and not even the wind blew.

She did not know what she had expected. For Jaskier to come after her? For nothing to happen? For Creyden to move on like nothing had happened? For them to mourn the ‘death’ of Princess Renfri and then continue their merry way, perhaps happier than before, about having one cursed child out of the way?

They probably did do that. They just decided to get rid of the second cursed child as well. They killed Jaskier.

There was no ‘tragic’ accident that took the life of Prince Julian and Princess Renfri, no unfortunate event. It had been all carefully calculated by Stregobor, a convenient and pleasing turn of events.

And then the wind blew again, stoking a fire that refused to die now.

Renfri was going to kill Stregobor with the same dagger Jaskier gifted her, and she was going to make it hurt.

So she trained, and trained and trained and trained. Practising by copying, practising with Jaskier, never quite came close to the real thing. This was the real thing. This was the thing that Stregobor created, and this was the thing that would kill him.

And so she became the sword and the dagger and the Shrike. The Butcherbird on a bloody path, eyes set on a single, beaconing prey she would rent apart.

there's going to be a chapter two that i'll post in two weeks time, if you're interested you can either subscribe on ao3, or ask to be on the taglist.

#jaskier minibang #the witcher #my fic #witcher fic #jaskier dandelion #renfri of creyden #geralt of rivia

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