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mordoriscalling · 3 years

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The Shrike and the Lark (pt. 2)

Jaskier and Renfri are disaster twins ruling Creyden. When the Warlord of the North knocks at their door, Queen Renfri and King Julian are at an advantage - they know him. As in, they know him. (Inspired by the Warlord AU and “the heart is a winged beast”).

(Pt. 1)

Creyden, 1237

It does not start as a usual feast. Although all the elements of a good celebration have been provided – food, drink, music – the mood is anxious rather than festive. The court of Creyden is apprehensive of the witchers and one sorceress seated at the high table; no one but the King and the Queen talks to them.

King Julian chatters with the witcher sitting at his left, whose face bears terrible scars. His name is Eskel, of the Wolf School. The White Wolf’s right hand and second-in-command has an agreeable countenance; King Julian seems to be perfectly at ease as he speaks to him. The two are, in fact, so engrossed in their conversation that they scarcely take note of what is happening around them.

Julian and Eskel do not pay attention when Queen Renfri addresses the White Wolf – who is seated at her right and has been silent thus far – loud enough for many to hear.

“I must say,” she begins, “to the naked eye, you don’t seem to have changed at all since we last met, yet they're many things that are different about you now.”

“Is that so?” the Warlord inquires.

“Oh indeed,” the Queen answers, “The last time I saw you, you were a man who adamantly refused to choose between evils. No evil was greater or lesser to you.” She regards the witcher closely and he watches her in the same manner. “And yet,” she goes on, “choosing what you deem the lesser evil is all you do now. Killing those in power to free the oppressed. A noble cause in a way, I admit –”

“But it’s still evil,” the White wolf finishes the thought.

Many ears are now listening in, and the white-haired witcher seems to be aware of it. He looks around, yet no one but Lady Yennefer sitting at his right dares to return his gaze.

Finally, he replies, “I must say I never expected to hear criticism of killing from the mouth of the Shrike. You seem to have changed your ways too.”

“Only slightly,” Queen Renfri retorts, “I’ve never stopped seeking revenge, but now I find that reclaiming my birthright is a much sweeter way. I triumph every day, not just once.”

The Warlord considers these words for some time. When he speaks, he remarks, “Your Majesty leads an empty life, then. If revenge is all you breathe for.”

The Queen’s eyes flash with icy ire. “I am not some kind of monstrous creature that finds fulfilment in vengeance. Though the blessings of my life have been few and far in between, it is they that give me the most joy.”

The White Wolf inclines his head but does not say anything to this. Queen Renfri’s anger appears to have lessened now; as she reaches for her goblet of wine and lifts it up, her lips are quirked up in a gentle smile.

“Shall we raise a toast?” she asks. “To life’s blessings. To the good moments we experience, to the good people we meet.” She looks to her brother, who is now listening to her with a soft smile of his own. “To friends and family.”

“To life’s blessings,” King Julian toasts.

After everyone drinks to that, the Kings raises from his seat, which causes the musicians to stop playing. Eventually, the whole room hushes, waiting for him to speak.

“The Queen, in her wisdom, reminded us all of what we should cherish,” he says. “Following her advice, I would like to count my blessings. Thus, I wish to honour her... with a song.”

The court of Creyden raises a loud cheer. King Julian grins and leaves the high table, a skip in his step. As he joins the musicians to be given a lute, the White Wolf’s entourage looks upon him with bemusement.

It is not a fact well-known that King Julian used to go by another name. Even his own subjects can only guess what person he passed as, although to some, it is not a challenging riddle. Around the time Jaskier – a winner of the annual bardic competition, a troubadour renowned in all Northen Kingdoms for his craft – mysteriously disappeared, King Julian was crowned. Seeing the mastery with which the King wields his words, voice and lute, the puzzle is not hard to solve for those who know all the pieces of it. The Lark simply has never stopped singing; the difference is that now, he does so for fewer people.

When King Julian begins playing The Ballad of the Black Sun Princess, he quickly has his audience captivated. All eyes are on him as he dances around the tables, smiling and winking, telling the story of how Queen Renfri defeated the mage Stregobor.

With everybody’s attention on the King, no one takes note of how the Warlord leans in close to the Queen.

“That’s not how it happened,” he grunts.

Queen Renfri chuckles. “Jaskier has the advantage of being the author of the ballad. He likes making use of it.”

“That he does,” the White Wolf grumbles.

After the song ends and the applause dies down, King Julian asks, “Shall I sing another?”

A chorus of eager ayes answers him.

“All right then,” he decides, playfully surprised. “I’d like to dedicate this next song to our honourable witcher guests. They are, after all, friends of humanity. Though I think that we should refrain from tossing some coins.”

At this, the court of Creyden cheers uproariously. With a delighted laugh, the King starts singing Toss A Coin. Simultaneously, the White Wolf curses under his breath.

“Fuck,” he spats, with quiet despair.

The reaction draws a laugh from Lady Yennefer. “Don’t be so grumpy, Geralt,” the sorceress tells him, “the song is not that bad.”

“Yeah, it’s not bad,” Geralt replies, “it’s fucking terrible.”

Lady Yennefer shakes her head but does not chide her lord any more.

“I’d advise you not to insult my brother’s work,” Renfri warns, “not when it’s not deserved.”

“My criticism is not unfounded,” Geralt retorts, “Jaskier chose to portray the elves in an unfairly negative light.”

Renfri does not deny that. Instead, she says, “Now I understand why he called you his harshest critic.”

The White Wolf only hums in response. After a moment, the Queen fills the silence, “My brother talked about you. He mentioned your shared travels... and more.”

“I see,” Geralt replies.

“To be fully transparent,” Renri carries on, her tone hushed, “I also told him of our past... relation.”

Upon hearing that, Geralt’s gaze snaps to her, his eyes wide and his mouth parted. Renfri bursts into delighted, whole-hearted laughter.

“Don’t worry,” she reassures the witcher once her giggles do not take her breath away, “you’re in no trouble. It caused no quarrel between us. In truth, we only find it entertaining. Really, Geralt, you should see yourself! It’s a joy to tease you.”

“I’d appreciate if you stopped with your jest,” Geralt grumbles.

“We shall see about that,” Renfri answers.

“Renfri,” Geralt grits out, “let the past stay in the past.”

The Queen and the Warlord stare each other down for a moment. Neither seems willing to yield but in the end, Renfri relents.

"Very well," she agrees, and they speak no more of it.

King Julian’s performance does not end with Toss A Coin. The audience wants him to continue, so he goes on to play some jigs. A few pairs begin dancing to the music, and many others soon follow in their footsteps. Eskel and Lady Yennefer join the dancefloor, and so does Queen Renfri. The White Wolf remains seated, watching everyone make merry, his golden gaze often straying to the singing Lark.

When King Julian tires of playing, he leaves the musicians to provide entertainment while he himself rejoins the high table. Since his sister is still dancing, the seat next to the White Wols is empty, and Julian seizes that opportunity.

“Hello, the Warlord of the North,” he greets as he sits down at the witcher’s side.

The White Wolf grunts but does not deign the King with a reaction. Julian gives a disbelieving chuckle.

“You, a warlord,” he says, “I still find it hard to believe. You used to be such a peace-loving creature. One of the most passive, pensive men I’ve ever met.”

“And you, a king,” the Warlord counters, “You used to be a bird who fled at the slightest mention of taking any kind of responsibility. One of the most selfish, reckless men I’ve ever met.”

“Well, look at us now.” The King smiles wryly. The White Wolf does not respond to that. King Julian heaves a sigh. “What happened, Geralt?” he asks quietly.

For some time, Geralt is quiet, not sparing Julian a glance. When he answers, at last, he only says, “It’s a long story.”

“Why don’t you tell me?” Julian inquires.

Geralt seizes him with a heated look, as unforgiving as the surface of the sun.

“You know enough of my stories, Jaskier,” he growls.

Not waiting for a reply, Geralt gets up and goes to take part in the dances, partnering with Lady Yennefer. Hurt twists Jaskier’s features but he masks it quickly. When his sister returns to his side a few minutes later, he greets her with a smile that clearly has no humour in it. Renfri does not comment on it.

Read the rest on AO3

#myfic #geraskier #the witcher fanfiction #the accidental warlord and his pack #renfri & jaskier are disaster twins

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likecastle · 4 years

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Witcher Noir AU, pt 7

More Witcher noir AU! All previous parts can be found here.

If you have prompts or suggestions for scenes you’d like to see, please send them my way!

CW for violence and a brief, non-specific mention of sexual harassment

Geralt hits the stage hard, one arm curled around Jaskier to shield him from worst of the impact. For a second, he’s too stunned by the pain in his ribs to move or even breathe. Jaskier, pinned under Geralt’s immobile weight, stares up at him. He has, Geralt notices, the faintest ring of hazel in his pale blue eyes.

Around them, people are screaming. Geralt can hear furniture crashing as the audience rushes for the exits. Down on the floor, the gunman is moving against the frantic crowd, closing in on the stage.

“We’ve got to go,” Geralt says, or tries to. His lungs still aren’t working right. He forces himself onto his feet, dragging Jaskier with him, and they run. Geralt shoves Jaskier ahead of him, the only protection he can offer from the next bullet, which zings past them and lodges itself in the wall not far from Jaskier’s head.

Then Jaskier is leading him, pulling him through a side door and out into an alleyway, knocking over trash cans behind them as they go. They emerge into the street at a run and almost collide with a passing cab. The driver leans on the horn and Jaskier swears indignantly, as if he has every right to stand in the middle of traffic if he wants to be.

Geralt scans the busy street—the panicked crowd milling around outside the club, the evening gridlock, the subway entrance across the way. He tugs at Jaskier’s arm and they dodge through traffic, scrambling down the stairs into the subway station, where a train is just pulling up. Jaskier is the one who vaults over the turnstile and Geralt only has a moment to appreciate the choice before he has to follow suit, much less gracefully than Jaskier, thanks to the searing pain in his side.

They lurch onto the train right before the doors close, and as the train pulls away from the platform, Geralt has a glimpse of the gunman staggering down the stairs after them. They lock eyes just as they did at the Palace Hotel, and from the look of frustrated rage on the gunman’s face, Geralt knows they won’t be in the clear for long.

“Well, that was bracing,” Jaskier says, collapsing into an empty seat with a breathless laugh. “Is it bad that I found that rather thrilling?” He’s panting, giddy, grinning up at Geralt with a dangerous gleam in his eyes. “I mean, I could do without being shot at, but I haven’t had to flee for my life in ages and it turns out I actually missed it, which . . .” The amusement drains from his expression. “You’re bleeding.”

Geralt follows Jaskier’s gaze to find blood dripping down his arm. He has to twist a little to get a look at the wound, which—“Fuck.”—hurts like hell. The first shot must have grazed him when he dragged Jaskier off the piano, but he didn’t even notice he’d been hit. It doesn’t look too deep, from what he can tell. That’s his best coat ruined, though. His only coat.

The other passengers on the train are edging carefully away from them. They’re going to have to disembark soon, or risk attracting attention, and he doesn’t want the cops involved, not when that would lead them straight into Stregobor’s clutches.

“Come here,” Jaskier says, as if Geralt is a wayward child who’s ruined his best Sunday suit. Geralt surprises himself by doing as he’s told and sitting down beside Jaskier. It feels good to rest for a moment, even if he knows it can’t last.

Jaskier takes a handkerchief out of his breast pocket—steely blue to match his shimmering navy suit—and presses it against Geralt’s wound.

Geralt tries not to flinch at the pressure. “So now you’re helping me?”

“In my defense,” Jaskier says, “the last time we met, I did think you were going to kill me.”

“I guess that’s as good a reason as any to poison me,” Geralt concedes.

“Not poison. I’m not a poisoner. That has entirely the wrong connotation. I don’t go around dripping deadly tinctures into people’s wine from a little pinkie ring. I just . . . gave you something to . . . help you sleep. Which—not that I make a habit of drugging people, either! It’s just—” He sighs deeply and raises his eyes to the ceiling of the train car. “Occasionally an admirer will get a little too insistent, and it’s more expedient than, oh, you know, hitting someone over the head with a vase.”

“Hm,” Geralt says, and very carefully does not wonder how many times Jaskier had to escape some lecherous fan by violence before he settled on an easier alternative.

“Anyway,” Jaskier continues, brightening up again, “that was before I knew you were trying to save my life, not end it. Although I do think I can be forgiven for making that mistake, thank you very much, what with all the looming you were doing. You’re extremely intimidating, in case you weren’t aware. I mean, it’s not the first time I’ve been attracted to someone who was threatening me, but, really, who gave you the right to look so ludicrously handsome in the midst of menacing someone? Which it turns out you weren’t doing on purpose, after all. So. Thanks for that.”

Unsure how to respond to this declaration, Geralt shrugs—which he really should know better than to attempt. He grits his teeth.

“So,” Jaskier says. “What now?”

“I’m thinking.” It certainly isn’t safe to take Jaskier back to his home, wherever that is, and it’s not like he can turn up at Yennefer’s half-dead with a murder witness in tow. He’s going to have to take Jaskier back to his place. It’s a risk—if the gunman knows who he is, he can easily find out where Geralt lives—but he doesn’t see any other option.

At the next stop, Geralt says, “All right, let’s go.” Jaskier has to help him to his feet—some tough private eye he is, can’t even stand up under his own power. Jaskier keeps an arm around him as they cross the platform, and Geralt doesn’t push him away.

“Uh-oh,” Jaskier murmurs as they approach the stairs.

Geralt looks over his shoulder to see one of the women who was in their subway car speaking to a police officer a ways down the platform. She’s pointing in their direction.

“Time to pick up the pace, I think,” Jaskier says, and they rush up the stairs as quickly as they can without looking suspicious.

Out on the street, Geralt hurries them in the direction of his building. Only once they’ve scrambled up three flights of stairs and locked his front door behind them does he let himself relax. And then, once he’s let his control slip a little, he finds himself sliding down onto the floor, his legs too weak to hold him up.

“Oh, hell—” Jaskier tries, vainly, to hold Geralt upright, but only succeeds in being dragged down with him. “Don’t die on me, now.” There’s blood on his hands and his pale blue eyes are wide with alarm. “You’re far too pretty to die, and I really don’t think I could live with the guilt, so if you could just—not do that, I’d appreciate it.”

Geralt laughs, or near enough. “Not planning on it.”

“Well, that’s a relief,” Jaskier breathes, and he does look genuinely relieved. “How can I help?”

“In the medicine cabinet,” Geralt says, nodding in the direction of the bathroom. “Should be a first aid kit.”

“Right.” Geralt notices now that there’s a slight tremor in his voice. He really is genuinely concerned. “I can do that. Won’t be a moment. Don’t go anywhere.”

Jaskier gets to his feet, wiping his bloody hands off on his trousers before heading in the direction of the bathroom.

“And whiskey!” Geralt calls after him. He’s going to need it.

Part eight

#the witcher #geralt #geralt of rivia #jaskier #cahir #geraskier #geralt x jaskier #gerlion #geralion #witcher au #noir au #witcher noir au #i've got 99 problems and aus are all of them

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