#onceuponadisneyqueue | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

narniaandplowmen · 4 years

Text

to say the truth (or lose his love)

Fandom: The Witcher Pairing: Geralt/Jaskier Also on AO3 2898 words.

Part 1 of the to say the truth (or lose his love) series

General Audiences / No Archive Warnings Apply Complete

In order to fulfil his contract, Geralt has to either kiss his true love, or find the Faery Queen's lost son. He assumes the latter will be easiest.

Jaskier had been feeling antsy for almost the entire day now. He didn't exactly know when it started, but as he looked at the apple Geralt had handed him in lieu of lunch, he suddenly realised that his insides were shaking and he was not at all hungry.

“There's a town three hours north.” Geralt announced as Jaskier was contemplating the implications of his ever-growing anxiety.

"Ah! Lovely! An actual bed to sleep in tonight!” He tried to measure his voice, but he knew Geralt could hear the artificiality of it. He had never been a very good actor.

“Hm.”

As they travelled in uncharacteristic silence, Jaskier's antsy feelings only grew and grew. Instead of becoming louder, as he usually did when he was nervous, he turned almost as quiet as the stoic Witcher himself.

“You okay bard?”

“What? Oh! Just looking at these beautiful trees, and all those-” Jaskier’s voice broke as he suddenly realised that alongside the path grew "buttercups." Fuck.

“You sure you're okay?”

“I'm sure!" Jaskier was sure he was not okay, and he did not know who he was trying to get to believe otherwise.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

“Fae.” Geralt grumbled before the bard could even ask what the new contract was. "Been stealing the grain. Poisoning the cattle. The mayor's wife is about to give birth, they're fearing a changeling.”

“Aha.” Jaskier just replied. “Are you waiting till tomorrow?”

“Sun’s still up for another few hours. Might as well try to find them now.”

“Yes. Right. Well. I'll just. Wait here for you to come back. Don't step in any circles, okay?”

And off the bard went, waving his lute questioningly at the innkeeper. Geralt rose an eyebrow, surprised that Jaskier hadn't insisted on coming along, as he usually did. Not that he minded. When the little town's mayor had told him about the village’s problems, Geralt had dreaded the prospect convincing Jaskier to stay behind almost as much as he was dreading fulfilling the contract. Not that he was going to complain, dealing with those damned Fae would be enough of a bother without the ever-blabbering Jaskier digging himself into holes he would not be able to climb out of. Still, weird. The sharp smell of anxiety hadn’t left the bard since early that morning, and Geralt made a mental note to keep a closer eye on him. Just to make sure he stayed okay. Not because they were friends , but, well, Geralt couldn’t imagine that an anxious bard could earn a lot of coin. And winter was coming up, and Geralt wasn’t so heartless as to leave Jaskier for the winter without any sort of security that the man would be okay. Not that he spent his time in Kaer Morhen worrying about the bard. No, they weren’t even friends.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

The Fae were not hard to find. Geralt had stumbled upon the first circle less than half an hour after leaving the village, meaning they had been living there for longer than the mayor had insinuated. Which also, Geralt realised, meant it would be more difficult to make them leave. He grunted and grabbed one of the sugar cubes he usually reserved for Roach, tossing it into the grass in the middle of the circle of blooming dandelions. A voice like the softest bells immediately replied.

“Witcher! Our Queen has been expecting you!”

Their Queen. That explained the proximity to the village. If the Court was big enough that it was ruled by a Queen rather than a Lady, it was properly able to defend itself against angry, overconfident villagers.

“What an honour,” Geralt grunted sarcastically.

“She's straight ahead,” the little fairy, a tiny green thing, pointed. “Take a right at the Oak, she's waiting near the buttercups.”

The creature said the final word as if they were supposed to mean something to him. He supposed they did. The bard's clothes always had a buttercup pattern. Not that he had been staring at the bard, no. He had just noticed it whilst repairing one of Jaskier's doubles. Just to stop his whining, not because he cared. He was just a nuisance, making his life more difficult every step of the way.

Ignoring the fairy's pointed look and carefully manoeuvring around the circle, Geralt made his way to the promised Queen.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

“You're back early! I don't suppose the Fae were incredibly forthcoming and ready to move immediately?” There almost seemed to be hope in the bard's voice.

“No.” He sighed. “They want payment.”

“Of course they do. And surely they weren't as forthcoming as to actually tell you what they want?”

“They were.”

“Wait what?” the surprise in Jaskier's voice was genuine. “Since when does m- a Fae Queen clearly state what she wants? That makes it suspiciously easy.”

“How did you know there was a Queen?”

“What did she want? Honey? Fish? Coin?" Jaskier pointedly ignored the question.

“True love's kiss.”

“What.” Geralt almost wished he could have a painting made of the stunned look on the bard’s face. Just because it looked so funny, not because it made the bright blue eyes stand out gorgeously, not because it emphasised the beautiful curve of the young man’s eyebrows, not because- Geralt quickly shook his head.

“She wants me to kiss my true love. Or, alternatively, she wants me to deliver her son home.”

“Ah. So. Great, I'll- I'll go get my stuff. Leave you to- to find Yennefer.”

“Why would I try to find Yennefer?”

“You just said 'true love'?”

The Witcher rolled his eyes. “Yennefer is not my true anything. Now, did you see any suspicious adult men here during your performance?”

“Did I what now?”

Geralt started humming.

“Geralt! Are you singing?! And not even one of my songs?”

“Sh! I’m trying to remember...” And, to Jaskier’s flabbergasted surprise, the Witcher started to softly sing.

“Twenty years he’s come and gone, in winters lies he here.

But now, my child, the time is come, for him he holds so dear

to say the truth, or lose his love, the lute will let you see

my son, at last, should travel home with him he loves or me,

to him he loves or me. ”

Jaskier stared at him, eyes and mouth wide open. “You can sing.”

“That’s not the point, Jask-”

“You. Can. Sing!” The bard now truly sounded offended. “And you say that’s not the point? Geralt, How many times have I tried to get you to sing along with my songs? My ballads? And not even just in public! You refused to sing when we were sitting next to a campfire gods knows where-”

“Jaskier!”

“I have to say Geralt, if I knew it took a meeting with m- with a Fae to get you to sing I would have-”

“Your lute,” Geralt interrupted. “The lute should reveal the fairy prince. Did you see anyone strange whilst I was gone?”

“You can sing.”

“Anyone in the audience? Jaskier, please.”

“Nobody in the audience looked out of the ordinary, Geralt. And I doubt that the fairy prince would calmly stop to listen to music so near to his mother’s court.”

“The Queen said that she knew her son was in the village. We have to ask around, see if anyone here disappears during winters. That must be something people notice.”

“You’d be surprised,” Jaskier laughed, and Geralt couldn’t help but detect a bit of bitterness in the bard’s voice. “But if you’re so insistent, I’ve been asked to perform again when everyone has put their children to bed. So you can sit there and endlessly wait till your medallion starts vibrating or whatever, but I am pretty sure it won’t. There will be no fairy princes in the audience tonight.”

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

There were no fairy princes in the audience that night. Instead of staying hidden in the shadows, Geralt had wandered through the inn during Jaskier’s performance, carefully observing the guests. He had spoken with the innkeeper, the mayor, a few women who were all too willing to gossip about the ins and outs of everyone in the village, but he had heard nothing that could help. He kept thinking about the words the Queen had sung. The time had come for someone to say the truth? Who? The person the prince held dear? The prince himself? And why would the prince lose that person if the truth wasn’t spoken? He stared blankly as Jaskier carefully wiped the lute down, inspecting it for any potential damages. The lute will let you see.

“Jaskier.”

“Oh, are you done brooding?”

“I need to borrow your lute.”

“Wait, are you telling me you cannot only sing, but also play? Twenty years we have been travelling together, twenty long years and-”

“Not to play. To see.”

“Listen Geralt, if you don’t know the difference between glasses and an instrument I don’t know what to-”

“The song, Jaskier. It says the lute will let me see the prince, so maybe I have to hold the lute.”

The bard looked at him doubtfully.

“I won’t let any harm befall it. I know how important it is for you, Jaskier. I promise I won’t damage it. I will protect it like- Like I protect Roach.”

“Fine. But if you-”

“If something happens to it, I will do everything in my power to repair or replace it. I swear.”

“Good.” Jaskier bit his lip. “And make sure you return it before dinner. This is a well-paying crowd.”

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Geralt felt like a fool, wandering through the village holding Jaskier’s lute. It didn’t help that the lute wasn’t helping. Nothing seemed out of the ordinary, nobody knew of anyone disappearing during winters, and, as far as he could track, there were no secret lovers either. So he did the only thing he could think of, and, lute in hand, walked back into the forest.

This time it took even less to find the fairy Queen. She seemed to be waiting for him, unsurprised that he came alone.

“You brought the lute.”

Geralt nodded. “I am sorry, your highness, but I have been unable to find your son. If you could but tell me how he looks li-”

“Give it to me.”

“What?”

“The lute. Give it to me.”

“It is not mine to give.”

The Queen smiled and waved her hand. “Don’t worry, Witcher, I know how much it means to the one it belongs to. He will get it back.” Geralt just looked at her. “He will get it back, whole, undamaged, in the exact state as it is now, before sunset.” the Queen specified. “I mean no harm to your bard.”

“He’s not my-”

“The lute, Witcher.”

Geralt sighed and, carefully not to enter the circle, handed the lute to the brown-haired lady.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

She did not break it. She did not enchant it, or cut its strings, or anything else. Instead, she played. One of Jaskier’s songs, Geralt recognised it. Not that he listened to the bard when he played, he tried to tune it out most of the time, but it wasn’t like he was completely able to avoid hearing the endless stream of music that joined him every place he went. After that song was done she played another, and another, and another. All of them written by Jaskier. She did not sing, though some of her servants would hum the occasional line or dance along.

It was getting late when Geralt spoke again. “You are a talented player, Lady, but I promised I would return this instrument to its owner before dinnertime. I could fetch you another lute from the village, if you want?” He knew from experience that even slightly antagonising a Fae court would make his task of getting them to leave exponentially more difficult.

“Ah, no, I think I like this lute better. It carries memories, you know,” she replied, continuing to play. Geralt was surprised at how suspiciously amiable this entire contract had gone. Any other Fae would have deviously tried to trick him by now, or forcibly dragged him into the circle. “Besides, the lute is not yours. I will return it to him who owns it.”

Fuck.

“You want me to fetch Jaskier.”

“Oh, there is no need for that. He is already on his way. He is pretty pissed, Witcher.”

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

The moment the words left the Queen’s mouth, Geralt heard the distant footsteps of the bard. He indeed sounded angry, but, as Jaskier came closer, Geralt noticed he smelled more of fear than of fury. Geralt frowned. Jaskier was never afraid. Sure, he would be scared of husbands he cuckolded, or the monsters Geralt fought, but never scared like this.

“What the fuck, Geralt. I lend you my lute, you promised you would keep it safe, and you hand it over to someone else? A Fae Queen? Are you mad? Are you short of a few marbles? A few thousand marbles, perhaps?”

“Hello, Julian.” The Queen said, before Geralt could say anything in defence of his actions. “You know I won’t ever let any harm come to your instrument.”

“I know m- I know. But he didn’t!”

“I promised him I would not harm the instrument, and I promised that you would have it back by sunset. He had no reason not to give the lute to me.”

“He still should not have. Give it back.”

“Come and get it.”

“Why now? Why like this?”

“It’s been twenty years, Julian. It’s time. And since you refuse to do it, I am forcing your hand. He has to know. You’re being unfair to him by keeping silent. He will discover someday, anyway. You have to make a choice, either reveal it now, voluntarily, or I will force you.”

“Fine.” And before Geralt could say anything, before he could step forward, grab Jaskier and drag him away, Jaskier stepped headfirst into the fairy circle and grabbed his lute from the Queen's outstretched hand.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

He didn’t die. Or faint. Or grow old rapidly. Jaskier just stood there, next to the Fae Queen, cradling his lute, and nothing changed. Geralt blinked. That was not true. Something did change. He became a little taller. His ears were a little bit more pointy. His smile a little wider, and everything about him became more regal than any king Geralt had ever seen.

“What. The. Fuck, Jaskier.”

“Geralt,” the bard said, with a mocking bow, “meet my mum. Mum, Geralt. Though you already knew that.” He stepped out of the circle, still firmly clutching his lute, and Jaskier became, well, Jaskier again. Not that he had ever not been Jaskier, but still.

Geralt just stared.

“I am sorry Geralt, I wanted to tell you, I really did, but I didn’t know you, and then Filavandrel gave me this lute, and- and I just sort of started following you, and- You never even admitted I was your friend! The only time we ever talked about Fae you just told me you thought all of them were cheating bastards!” Geralt winced. “Yennefer never told you? I am sure she knew. And- I mean, I never aged! We have been travelling for two decades and I still look as young as when we first met! Do you mean to tell me you never noticed?”

“I thought- Your salves and-”

“Those can’t completely stop someone from ageing! I-” Jaskier’s voice suddenly went from exasperated to really quiet. “I’m sorry. I’ll go grab my stuff from the inn. Don’t worry, I’ll make sure no Fae will ever harm you. I- I’ll see you in a bit, mum.” And with those words, Jaskier turned away and left.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

“He did want to tell you, you know.” The Queen’s voice sounded from behind him. “He was just afraid of losing you. I hoped this would give you two a push in the right direction, but it seemed like I was wrong.”

“Jaskier’s a faery?”

“Jaskier is my son. He is High Prince of the Summer Court, and will inherit my throne in a couple of centuries.”

“Centuries? He is immortal?”

“As long as he doesn’t get himself into too much trouble, yes, he is.”

“Jaskier’s immortal. He won’t die.” Geralt stared in the direction the bard had disappeared in as his brain and heart rapidly embraced feelings had refused to acknowledge for the past twenty years.

“He has lived for over six hundred years, and he will live at least another ten times that.”

Geralt ran.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

By the time he arrived at the inn, Jaskier had already packed his belongings and was saying goodbye to Roach. “Jaskier!”

“I’m sorry Geralt.”

“I love you.”

There was a loud twang as Jaskier’s prized lute hit the ground.

“I love you. And I didn’t tell you, and I didn’t tell myself, and- I thought you would die, Jaskier! I thought you would die, and leave me here, and it was easier just to pretend I didn’t like you than to admit it and see you grow old and leave-” Geralt’s words were cut off as the bard’s, his bard’s, lips hit his. The smell of flowers, the taste of honey, the soft touch of Jaskier’s hand on his cheek- It was beautiful and gorgeous and real.

“You don’t hate me? For keeping this secret so long?”

Geralt just shook his head and kissed.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

The village’s cattle were safe, in the end. So was the harvest, and the mayor’s child, or any other baby born, for that matter. The Witcher had fulfilled his contract and received his coin, and by the time a young Oxenfurt graduate passed through the village singing a song of a white-haired Witcher and his Faery love, the people had long forgotten about their own encounter with the White Wolf of Rivia. It was not like they could know that every winter, Kaer Morhen bloomed wild with tiny, yellow flowers. Or that, every summer solstice, the Fae Queen’s celebrations were attended by a witcher. Or that, for many, many, many years to come, a humble bard and a friend to humanity, with rings on their fingers, would travel the Continent, never leaving the other’s side.

#jaskier #the witcher #geralt of rivia #geraskier #geraskier ff #the witcher ff #q #onceuponadisneyqueue #onceuponadisneypotter

125 notes · View notes

narniaandplowmen · 3 years

Text

The Wild Returned

Fandom: The Witcher Pairing: Geralt/Jaskier Also on AO3 6773 words.

General Audiences / No Archive Warnings Apply Complete

When he arrived back at the foot of the mountain, Geralt most decisively went in the complete opposite direction of Jaskier’s smell. He didn’t hear the animal following him at a safe distance.

* * *

Jaskier didn’t necessarily plan on following Geralt. They just happened to be travelling in the same direction, that was all.

[Read the first chapter here]

Please note that this chapter mentions suicide, though no characters actually commit suicide.

CHAPTER 2 - The Wild Returned

He had thought it had been a misunderstanding, a mistake, some sort of error. Surely Jaskier would be teaching in Oxenfurt, or flirting with Countess de Stael, or gracing the court of some king or other with his presence and performance. But as time went on, and village after village and city after city and person after person confirmed that the famous Jaskier had indeed disappeared, Geralt started to panic.

His first instinct was to travel back to the last place he had seen Jaskier, to trace him from there. So that was exactly what he did. He asked for information in the villages he passed along the way, some of them more helpful than others. He didn’t fail to notice that every place seemed to have at least one citizen who, though eying him suspiciously, was willing to give him the benefit of the doubt. Geralt knew that Jaskier’s songs were widespread and popular, but he had never truly appreciated their effects until now.

It wasn’t till the first rain of stones landed on him that he had realised just how long ago it had been since the last time anyone had chased him away like that. And what had he said to Jaskier the last time he had seen him, maybe the last time he would ever see the bard? Something about ‘if life could give me one blessing, it would be to take you off my hands’?

He didn’t want to admit it, but the pressing silence without the ever-chattering bard on his side got to him. He didn’t even talk to Roach anymore, his tongue too heavy to fill the unfamiliar quiet around him. In the past two decades, he had grown accustomed to telling Roach what he wanted to tell Jaskier but couldn’t, but now there were no more words to say. What did Roach care that they would rest in an hour, that they would reach a village before nightfall, that the bird whistling in the distance was a rare black redstart?

The wolf still followed him, and still refused to accept any food. Instead, the creature occasionally left freshly-killed prey for him to find, like some invisible guardian, as if Geralt were some young pup unable to take care of himself.

* * *

They were a day’s travel away from the mountain when Geralt addressed the wolf for the first time since leaving Kaer Morhen.

‘I don’t-’ the words sounded broken in his untrained throat. ‘I don’t know when exactly you started following me, but we’re near the mountain range where I first noticed you. Well over 200 miles west of there, but still.’ He stared into his small fire for a while before speaking once more. ‘I’m here to find a-’ he fell silent once more. How could he even begin to describe what Jaskier was to him? ‘A- a friend, I suppose. Although I never told him that. Instead, I was a dick.’ Now that the words were coming he couldn’t stop. ‘I blamed him for everything wrong with my life, even though none of that was his fault. He didn’t tell me to claim the law of surprise, that was my own stupid fault. And I made the wish that almost made him die. And- And I can’t even count the number of times that the money he earned allowed me to eat, allowed me to bathe, allowed me to sleep in safety. And what did I do to repay him? Chase him away, like I do with every mortal that comes too close. I’m an idiot.’

If he wasn’t terribly afraid of chasing away the one thing that voluntarily stayed with him, he would have screamed.

The next day, at the bottom of the mountain, he decisively walked into the forest, towards the place he had run away from what seemed like so long ago.

When he didn’t hear the steps of the wolf following him, he pretended it didn’t hurt.

* * *

The forest floor revealed no footprints. The flowery cover of Jaskier’s scent had long since faded away, although the distinctive autumn pinewood smell that had followed him for two entire decades had not ceased to tease his nose ever since the fateful day he had cursed the man and left him for dead. Geralt knew it was foolish, knew that there was no way of knowing where Jaskier had gone, but he trudged on anyway.

The forest was filled with caverns and caves, some leading to long, dark, winding underground mazes, others leading to deep, endless pools or fast-rushing waters. The small relief that no monsters - save for himself - seemed to be roaming these woods was undone by his rapidly growing anxiety that Jaskier could have gotten lost anywhere. One wrong turn, one misstep and the bard could have fallen to his doom, or gotten lost in the tunnels carved out by centuries of streaming water. If Jaskier was truly gone, had truly disappeared into these woods never to be seen again, then-

Geralt didn’t dare finish that thought. Instead, he entered yet another cave and yelled the bard’s name, desperately wishing he wouldn’t find a rotted skeleton clad in red leather.

He continued combing through the forest and its caverns as the sun set, using the light of the waxing, almost-full moon as his guide. He was considering taking Cat when a sudden bark disrupted his search. In the distance, he could see the silhouette of a large wolf. It barked again, before disappearing into a cave, reappearing moments later as if to see if Geralt followed.

Muttering to himself that he was going mental, Geralt grabbed Roach’s reins and followed.

* * *

The cave the wolf had disappeared into was surprisingly light. Although the edges of the quiet pool would have been impossible for humans to see, the moon shining through the web-covered hole in the ceiling brightened the slippery stone and dark water more than enough for the Witcher’s eyes. More than enough for him to see a tuft of bright fabric poking out of a slit in the wall. More than enough for him to find sure footing whilst rushing towards it, more than enough for him to grab it, to touch it, to feel, see, smell, know that the shirt he was cradling, still smelling faintly of flowers through the damp, cavernous scent, was once Jaskier’s.

Geralt’s feeling of dread grew as he found more and more possessions of the bard hidden through the cavern.

Songbooks, lute strings, some coins, a comb, a dagger and an ornate ring.

And, as the angle of the moon slowly changed during the night and something glittering in the pool caught his eye, the freezing temperatures of the water was not the only reason Geralt shivered. Perfume bottles, a bag filled with clothes, rusted jewellery, tiny rotten wooden statues, various nicknacks and trinkets picked up during their travels, ones he had always teased Jaskier about when the bard complained about his heavy luggage.

It was sunrise when Geralt finally left the cave and rejoined a nervous Roach. Next to her stood a large, grey wolf with piercing blue eyes reminiscent of the man who must, had, couldn’t possibly be otherwise than at the deepest bottom of the underground lake, deeper than he could dive.

It was then that Geralt collapsed and cried.

They had been travelling for three weeks when Jaskier realised where they were heading. He had no idea why on earth Geralt would want to go back there, what there was to gain from visiting that cursed place where he had ripped Jaskier’s heart in pieces as if it were a loaf of soft bread served alongside a bowl of stew. Jaskier huffed. Living in the wilderness without his human body or talking companions had really taken away his more poetic tendencies.

He still followed, though he lingered wherever he could. That aching emptiness that had taken hold of him the moment Geralt had revealed his true sentiments, the void that had slowly started to mend itself as time went on, was torn open a little bit further with every step he took, every day they walked, every week that passed. Jaskier knew that if Geralt would climb that mountain back to the rock where it had happened, he would not be able to follow.

If Geralt climbed the mountain, Jaskier would turn and join his family for good.

For a moment, Jaskier feared that Geralt knew, that he had unmasked his disguise and was travelling to the mountain on purpose, as some sort of cruel punishment for continuing to follow him, against the man’s deepest wishes.

With every step closer to the mountain, that fear grew.

A day before they would arrive, the Witcher spoke, and Jaskier feared no more.

* * *

That night, as Geralt lay asleep, Jaskier slipped away in the direction of the forest where he had left his belongings. He wasn’t quite sure what to do next.

It was midday by the time he heard a familiar, rough voice call his name in the distance.

The sun had set by the time the Witcher came even remotely close to the correct cave. Jaskier stood and watched as the man methodically entered, searched and exited each cave, yelling a name he hadn't heard in almost a year. The forest, the caves, the chill in the air, the memories of the words spit in his direction not that far away from here tore through his heart as the voice breaking through the silent forest became more and more desperate.

When Geralt moved to step into a cavern Jaskier remembered lead to a steep drop into rapidly rushing water, he barked.

And immediately cursed himself for doing so. But it was too late, the man had heard. Of course he had, and now Jaskier had no choice but to act, but to point out the cave in which he had hidden his possessions, to lead him away from the danger Jaskier himself had almost fallen in. The gods only knew what would happen.

Jaskier closed his eyes and tried to be thankful that he at least got almost another year of being with Geralt.

Besides, Jaskier was pretty sure he would be able to outrun and outhide the Witcher in this environment, if worst came to worst.

The outcome he didn’t expect was the man coming out of the cave soaking wet, collapsing in front of him and crying.

#geraskier #geraskier ff #geraskier fanfiction #geraskier fanfic #jaskier #geralt #the witcher #the witcher ff #the witcher fanfic #the witcher fanfics #q #onceuponadisneyqueue #written by me #made by me

36 notes · View notes

narniaandplowmen · 4 years

Conversation

Antipholus of Syracuse: I have been looking for my identical twin brother for years, and it lead me to this town where I have never been, yet everyone knows me. How could this be?

Viola, an intellectual: People seem to think I'm someone else, this must mean my brother is alive.

#Shakespeare said ''only braincells for women'' and I respect him for that #today's hot take: antipholus is a jock #no brain head empty #shakespeare #english lit #english lit meme #english literature meme #english literature memes #english lit memes #shakespeare memes #shakespeare meme #twelfth night #a comedy of errors #onceuponadisneyqueue

20 notes · View notes

narniaandplowmen · 3 years

Text

The Wild Embraced

Fandom: The Witcher Pairing: Geralt/Jaskier Also on AO3 6773 words.

General Audiences / No Archive Warnings Apply Complete

When he arrived back at the foot of the mountain, Geralt most decisively went in the complete opposite direction of Jaskier’s smell. He didn’t hear the animal following him at a safe distance.

* * *

Jaskier didn’t necessarily plan on following Geralt. They just happened to be travelling in the same direction, that was all.

[Read the first chapter here]

CHAPTER 3 - The Wild Embraced

Jaskier was dead. And clearly not through an accident either, if the carefully stowing away of certain possessions was anything to go by, although why some items were thrown in the water was unclear. Not that it mattered, not that any of it mattered. Jaskier was dead, Jaskier was dead and it was his fault. All the stones, the curses, the attacking fans had been right in their judgements. Geralt had killed the bard, even if the weapon wielded hadn’t been a sword, or an arrow, or a carefully placed Sign. Instead, the poison of his words had been the thing that had extinguished one of the only sources of light in the Witcher’s life. And why wouldn’t it, for a man who held words in such high esteem?

Geralt barely felt the pain in his knee as a jagged stone pierced through his skin when he collapsed onto the ground. It wasn’t like it mattered anyway.

‘I’m sorry,’ Geralt sobbed to the ground, to the slowly rising sun, to nobody in particular and the world around him. ‘I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry I never should have-’ his voice broke as the wolf jumped down and licked his tears. The creature that had followed him for so many miles, for so many days, through all kinds of weather and was still there, still here. ‘I don’t deserve your kindness, I don’t-’ he reached out his hands to push the wolf away, to yell at it, to stop its foolish pursuit, but when his fingers touched the soft fur he instead held on tight, pushing his face into the grey hairs and breathing in the pinewood smell. ‘Why are you following me? I- I’m a monster. I kill everyone close to me. Renfri, Jaskier... You’re not safe here.’

The wolf didn’t free himself from the Witcher’s grip, didn’t bite and wriggle and squirm itself free, didn’t scratch or run or bark or howl. It just rested its head on Geralt’s back as the man sobbed and sobbed and sobbed. ‘I’m sorry Jaskier, I am sorry.’

* * *

Have you ever met somebody and you didn’t quite catch their name, and now you have been friends for the longest time but you still don’t know what they’re called? Or have you ever not been paying attention to a conversation, leaving you at a loss for words when someone asks your opinion about the subject matter? Or have you ever changed into a wolf, followed the embodiment of home around until he thought you were dead, whilst you were very very very much alive? It was exactly like that that Jaskier felt when Geralt’s hand dug into his fur, apologising with a broken voice to what he believed to be a dead friend.

The first time Jaskier had seen Geralt pet a street dog with his strong, callused hands, Jaskier had wanted to turn in that exact moment, wanted the man to thread his fingers through his fur, curl up against him during cold nights, ran with him through the endless wilderness connecting the Continent’s cities and stretching far into the unknown.

When Geralt, later that night, had returned with the head of a rabid werewolf he had been hired to kill, Jaskier took the stage and performed his song, avoiding the curious stare of the innkeeper’s guard-dog Geralt had pet on his way to their room.

The next time he dreamt of fingers threading through his fur, he knew it was a dream that never could come true.

* * *

Jaskier knew he had to free himself, knew that the tight grip he was in now would squish any human, break their bones and their possessions.

It wasn’t till Roach’s loud whinny broke through the Witcher’s silent sobs that Jaskier wriggled himself loose, jumped from rock to rock until he was standing on top of the cave Geralt had exited, and let his bones and skin turn into the familiar shape he had inhibited for twenty long, long years.

* * *

If there is one thing a Witcher knows, it is that nothing lasts forever. No love, no life, no happiness nor even the Path is everlasting. Eventually, every Witcher grows slow and dies. It is the individual’s task to cherish the moments whilst they last and move on when they don’t.

Geralt had never been very good at that last part.

When his tears dried up and the wolf wrestled free, he was tempted to hold on to the beast, force it into his embrace for even a moment longer, but he knew it wouldn’t do. Reluctantly, he saw the animal jump up over rocks and bushes until it was seated out of his reach up high on top of the grave of the person he once refused to call home.

The wolf closed its eyes, tensed its muscles, and changed.

* * *

It was tradition for his kind to live and study amongst the humans once their minds and bodies had grown sharp and strong enough to make the journey to where the people lived. Any Lupinis, for that is what they had called themselves, could then choose where to roam, whether to walk the earth on two or four or either feet. Jaskier was the only one of his litter born a human, so his parents weren’t surprised when their son did not return and reports of his success amongst the bipeds reached their home.

Jaskier had returned once, warming the winter with stories of his adventures travelling through the Continent and spreading his songs. Both his forms had grown strong and fast and wise.

That winter, the Haakland mountains had echoed with song and strums and howls.

* * *

One of the features of his kind was that they never forgot a face. The Haakland caves are covered in mirrors brought back by travelling wolves visiting home. As long as you knew exactly the shape you were in, the clothes you were wearing, the items you carried as you turned, they would still be with you when you changed your fur back to skin, paws back to hands and fangs back to teeth. When Jaskier looked down at the baffled Witcher below him, he knew he looked exactly like he did the last time he had seen his own human form: a satchel on his hip, his lute on his back, and a bright red leather jacket covering his smooth skin.

‘Hello.’

His voice sounded rough, broken, apologetic and ashamed.

* * *

His voice sounded heavenly.

The faint buzz of his medallion, the distant aching in his knee and the biting cold of the breeze on his soaked skin were the only things that proved to Geralt that he was still alive, that he hadn’t drowned in the dark pool below and joined whichever afterlife awaited for those whose journey in the living world had ceased to be.

Either the heavens and hells were different than the priests proclaimed, or he had finally gone completely barking mad.

‘I’m sorry,’ the voice continued. ‘I know I should have left when you told me to,’ the blue-eyed form stated. ‘I know I should have said something earlier,’ the young man’s mouth uttered. ‘But I was- I was afraid. And I swore an oath to keep me secret. Our kind is hard to kill, but it is not impossible. I- If you want me to, I will leave.’

Geralt stood and stared at the figure, his face almost as broken as it had been when his words had cut through his lips straight into the heart of the man who had been his companion, his friend, his home. The man who had cared for him when no one else would, who had laughed at his jokes, understood his grunts, had literally sung his praises as they walked through the wilderness across the known world.

It wasn’t till the vision turned around and started to leave when Geralt found his voice.

* * *

‘Wait.’

Jaskier halted in his steps but did not turn to face the source of the sound.

‘Wait,’ the man behind him repeated. ‘Are you real?’ he continued, after a beat.

‘As real as any of us ever are,’ Jaskier replied, trying to keep his voice steady, trying not to betray the sadness in his throat, the pain in his heart, the dreadful echo in his head reminding him of the finality of this moment, of the end of the future he had never dared to imagine, of the long trip ahead of him to rejoin the family that wasn’t his anymore across the mountains ready to accept him with open arms and melodic howls and endless hunts.

‘Were you the one that followed me?’

‘I am.’

‘Why?’

‘Because,’ Jaskier sighed, turned around and looked down into the yellow, hopeful eyes below. ‘Because you’re my territory. You’re my pack. An Alpha never abandons his pack.’

‘Even after all I did?’

‘Even after all you did.’

* * *

They sat and spoke, that day. Geralt below next to a small fire, Jaskier above basking in the sun.

They spoke of the mountain, of their fears and their worries, their pasts and their present and, as the sun disappeared behind the trees and down where none could follow, whether mortal or monster, they discussed the future. Their future, and all it could bring.

The first thing it brought, was forgiveness.

The second thing a peaceful rest.

In the weeks and months after that, a slowly rebuilt friendship, one based on talks and trust and helpful treatments.

During their first contract, the kikimore stood no chance between the white sharp teeth of a large, grey wolf and the cutting silver wielded by the man in black. A colourful bard and a smiling Witcher came to collect the bounty.

That winter, a fifth wolf stayed in the Witcher’s castle, filling it with song and warmth and freshly-hunted meat.

The next, a village on the foot of the Haakberg mountains sold supplies to a strange, white-haired man with yellow eyes travelling into the wild with a large, grey wolf the people knew was neither wolf nor man, but something in-between.

* * *

Through the years in the Continent, on cold spring and autumn nights, the rabbits and squirrels and deer avoided the strange camp where a fire burned and a Witcher cradled his closest friend, his home, his companion, his everything and more.

Jaskier’s dreams of callused fingers threading through his fur, of careless kisses on his tanned skin, of watching the wild fly past him as Geralt’s legs tried to match his four-legged speed in the endless chase for freedom and happiness and love were dreams no more, but blissful reality.

And, Geralt considered, as he, many years later, watched from the shadows of the inn as his husband performed, although all may not last forever, there was nothing that could stop him from enjoying the memories of happiness, the moments of contentment, the love-filled days and futures full of forgiveness and grace. For even when the fights were rough, the nights were cold and the Path was cruel, they were fought and spent and walked together.

Later, as his fingers traced the soft skin of the man asleep next to him, Geralt realised that not all impermanence led to sorrow.

And if embracing impermanence meant embracing the Wild, this was a damned handsome Wild to embrace.

#geraskier #geraskier ff #geraskier fanfiction #geraskier fanfic #jaskier #the witcher #geralt of rivia #The Witcher ff #the witcher fanfiction #the witcher fanfic #q #onceuponadisneyqueue

13 notes · View notes

narniaandplowmen · 4 years

Text

My lute be still for I have done.

Fandom: The Witcher Pairing: Geralt/Jaskier Also on AO3 2608 words.

General Audiences / No Archive Warnings Apply Complete

Part 1 of Half a Century of Poetry

Three months after The Mountain, Jaskier is a one-day journey away from Oxenfurt. There, one night before he enters the city to become a professor, he writes and performs his final song.

Jaskier couldn’t perform. It had been three damn months and he still couldn’t perform. Oh sure, he tried, and he did manage to get through some songs without being hindered by sobs ripping their way up from the core of his heart. But he couldn’t perform. He couldn’t even get through the first few chords of Toss a Coin without his throat closing up and forcing him to change to a different song before even opening his mouth to sing the first line. Sure, he had tried singing the very few songs in his repertoire that did not speak about the Witcher and his heroic deeds, but every single song somehow circled back to Geralt. Geralt, who had, in no uncertain terms, told him it was better if Jaskier were dead. If life could give me one blessing, it would be to take you off my hands.

He had attempted to sing Fishmonger’s Daughter, but that only reminded him of their first meeting and Parvetta’s betrothal feast. Even the songs he had written for Countess de Stael were unplayable. He couldn’t fool himself. He knew that, even though the songs described the long soft hair and gorgeous eyes of a maid unaware of her own beauty, he was really describing a certain long-haired, yellow-eyed self-conscious Witcher. And even if he did manage to fool himself, the instrument he held was, on occasion, more than enough to make his heart break into even smaller pieces, if that was even possible. The lute was a physical reminder of their first adventure, of the compassion Geralt had shown even when his life was threatened. And yet Jaskier could not manage to part with it, could not even conceive of selling it. It was, after all, some sort of reminder that Geralt had, once, cared. Had, once, put Jaskier’s life above his own. Once.

It had been three months. Three damn months and Jaskier felt pathetic. He had hoped, dreamed, wished, prayed that by now he would be over it, his broken heart would be healed even the tiniest bit, but now that winter was fast approaching, he had to accept the fact that it would not. Instead of nagging at Geralt that he was getting so cold, that he needed the Witcher’s body warmth - ‘I am a mutant, my skin is cold,’ Jaskier could hear the words as if Geralt was standing next to him - he was camping in a forest alone, with nothing but his thoughts to distract him from the biting cold and his chattering teeth. Tomorrow, he would be in Oxenfurt. Tomorrow, he would be surrounded by hundreds of people, welcomed warmly and, hopefully, offered a teaching position, like the university had done every time he travelled through town. Where he had always kindly refused, he would, this time, graciously accept. Jaskier had prepared his excuses well: he would tell them he was too old to travel the road, he would speak of the ‘importance of giving way for a new generation’, he would complain about his knees hurting if he walked too much. And then, maybe, hopefully, nobody would question that he was not following the white-haired Witcher anymore. And if they begged him to play… If they begged him to play, he would refuse. He would, Jaskier had decided, claim he was rheumatic. State that playing hurt. It would give an excuse for his sombre state, for his tears if he did play, for his choice to leave the Path he had always spoken so fondly of. Jaskier the Traveling Bard, the moment he entered Oxenfurt, would cease to exist, replaced by Professor Pankratz.

But that wouldn’t be until he entered the city. So now, in the dark loneliness of the forest, Jaskier grabbed his lute and played.

My lute awake performe the last

Labour that thou and I shall waste:

And end that I have now begonne:

And when this song is song and past:

My lute be styll for I have done.

Jaskier remembered how his parents had disapproved of his career path. They had been elated when he had announced he wanted to go to Oxenfurt, but this happiness was short-lived once they had learned that their son was not planning on studying business, or politics, or some sort of scientific program. Wanting to study the seven liberal arts had caused multiple huge fights. Most of them were now, so many years later, a vague, negative blur in his mind, but he remembered one thing vividly. During one of the final fights he had had with his parents before they allowed him to go, he had stood in a windowsill on the third floor, holding tight but hovering one foot over the empty air below, yelling that he ‘would rather DIE than give up music’. And now, as he played, he knew that giving it up would cause his death as well. He breathed out a small laugh. Die of heartbreak, a marvellously poetic way to go. How else was he expecting to die? Old, surrounded by friends and family? Children and grandchildren around his bed as he used his last words to say something wise? No, that had never been an option. He would cease playing and die, as he once, so long ago, when he lived in happier times, had joked: a broken-hearted man.

As to be heard where eare is none:

As lead to grave in marble stone:

My song may pearse her hart as sone.

Should we then sigh? or singe, or mone?

No, no, my lute for I have done.

He didn’t understand where he had gone wrong. Jaskier considered himself quite a good judge of character, and he knew that this was not just one of the self-aggrandising statements he often made. His ability to read others, mirror them and appease their needs was the exact reason he had become so well-know, so well-liked, the ‘skilled negotiator’ and ‘stirring orator’ that had been welcomed by courts around the Continent with open arms. Sure, musical talent was important, but any successful bard’s true strength was his ability to appease in all senses of the word. So where had he gone wrong? What had happened? Had he truly not been able to correctly judge the nature of his and Geralt’s relationship? He knew, of course he knew, that Geralt could never see Jaskier as Jaskier saw him. It was abundantly clear that their friendship was just that, a friendship. There would be no hope for anything other than that. Yet, Jaskier had been pretty confident in calling Geralt a friend. Sure, the Witcher denied it with each passing breath, but Jaskier knew that Geralt knew that all those denials were lies, attempts to not get attached to someone mortal, no matter the fact that Jaskier’s half-elf parentage meant he would still live twice as long as the average human. Twice as long was nothing, nothing compared to the eternity a quick Witcher could live. So Jaskier hadn’t pushed. Sure, he had joked, on occasion, but never too much. Never to the point where it made Geralt uncomfortable. Their friendship was an unspoken thing, and that was fine. So what had happened for that to change? Jaskier briefly stopped playing to wipe the tears from his cheeks. Pathetic. If life could give me one blessing, it would be to take you off my hands. What had he done to deserve such a death-wish? Jaskier knew he had a tendency to be a bit too much, too bright, too happy, too loud. Yet still, did he deserve this fate?

The rockes do not so cruelly

Repulse the waves continually,

As he my sute and affection:

So that I am past remedy,

Wherby my lute and I have done.

Jaskier turned to add more wood to the fire. Next to the small stack of wood he had gathered, a tiny violet flower bloomed. He reached out, picking it from the dirt and turning it around between his fingers. Violet. Yennefer. The Wish. He had stumbled across the sorceress a month after The Mountain and, instead of cursing him, or killing him, or laughing at his pathetic state, she had bought them both tremendous amounts of ale and they had spent the night - bonding? Yes, that was the only appropriate word for it, no matter how weird it sounded. It turned out that Geralt had not only ruined his relationship with Jaskier that day. He had also managed to make an enemy of the most powerful person on the entire Continent. Jaskier had been appalled when Yennefer, in a soft voice, had shared what had happened when Geralt had found the djinn. Jaskier himself could remember little of it, and now he wished he could still live in that blissful ignorance. The knowledge that Yennefer saved him was awful enough on its own, but learning about the wish made Jaskier want to vomit. Sure, he was an ‘unparalleled lover’, but he always, always made sure he had the full, complete and enthusiastic consent of his partner before undertaking anything. What Geralt had done was cruel, opportunistic and shameful. And, although he never thought he would say the words, Yennefer deserved better.

Proude of the spoile that thou hast gotte

Of simple hartes through loves shot:

By whom unkinde thou hast them wonne,

Thinke not he hath his bow forgot,

Although my lute and I have done.

It had turned out that Jaskier had not just ‘stumbled across’ Yennefer. Instead, she had sought him out. The next morning, after some handy magic spared him from nursing the worst hangover of his life, Yennefer had revealed her plan of vengeance. As the woman spoke, Jaskier made several mental notes to never ever cross her. Still, he had refused. He understood the desire for vengeance, for payment, for retribution but, Jaskier had told Yennefer, Geralt had taken enough of his life. He didn’t want to spend more time chasing the white-haired Witcher. Besides, without them, how many friends did the man have left? Letting him rot in his loneliness was enough of a punishment. Yennefer had disagreed, of course she had. But she had left him with a ring. Turning the blue stone twice would signal that he had changed his mind, that he wanted to take revenge anyway. Turning it thrice would alert Yennefer that he was in great danger. Turning it once would signify he was thinking of her. Turning the stone once, he turned back to his lute and continued to play.

Vengeaunce shall fall on thy disdaine

That makest but game on earnest payne.

Thinke not alone under the sunne

Unquit to cause thy lovers plaine:

Although my lute and I have done

As Jaskier played, another memory forced its way up to the forefront of his mind. It had been at the beginning of their travels, sitting next to a campfire similar to this whilst discussing Geralt’s newest contract.

‘What happens if you don’t manage to kill it this time?’ Jaskier, in his youthful innocence, had asked.

‘I die.’ The Witcher had said it as if it were the most normal thing in the world.

‘And when does it end? All this fighting and travelling? When are you done?’

‘When I die.’

‘Don’t you want to settle down? Maybe somewhere on the seaside? Retire? Find a nice cottage?’

‘Witchers don’t retire,’ Geralt had grunted, with a tone that made it clear that this was the end of the conversation.

Later, Jaskier had often seen the exhaustion on Geralt’s face. The man might have thought he hid his emotions well, but the opposite was true. He had seen him glance at old, retired couples. He had seen the mental exhaustion as the Alderman tried to find loopholes to pay him less. He had seen the longing, aching, yearning that Geralt never truly allowed himself to admit he had. So, when Geralt had come down from the mountain with a clear look of defeat, Jaskier had extended him a metaphorical hand.

‘We could head to the coast. Get away for a while.’

But instead of a nod, or of Geralt’s characteristical silence, he had been met with those words. That deathwish. Take you off my hands. And here Jaskier was, away from the Witcher who would, apparently, rather have him dead than alive. And some bitter part of him hoped that Geralt would make his way to the coast, would get away for a while, and would, finally, realise that Jaskier had been right. But by then it would be too late, and maybe, maybe, some vengeful part of him whispered, Geralt would feel even a fraction of the hurt Jaskier felt now.

May chance thee lie withered and olde,

In winter nightes that are so colde,

Playning in vain unto the mone:

Thy wishes then dare not be tolde.

Care then who list, for I have done.

Jaskier knew the idea of Geralt retiring was laughable, of course he did. A Witcher did not retire. He lived on, fought monsters, got slow and died. Most likely somewhere in a muddy swamp, slowly and painfully bleeding out as his mutations tried their best to heal him, but failing to do so. Probably whilst being eaten by a kikimore or something equally awful. In those last hours, would Geralt think of him? Of Yennefer? Of the child surprise he had left behind, he had never visited? Or would he, by then, have completely forgotten about any of them. Were they all just a breeze in the wind, a single grain of sand in the desert of Geralt’s life? A soft buzz on his finger signalling that Yennefer, too, thought of him, removed him from those thoughts. No, it could not be. Jaskier had to have meant something. Geralt had allowed him to travel with him for two decades, that must have accounted for something, right? Maybe, just maybe, Geralt’s last thoughts would be of him. Maybe he would regret his behaviour, and maybe, when they both arrived at Melitele’s Gates, they would be reunited at last, and all would be well.

And the may chance thee to repent

The time that thou hast lost and spent

To cause thy lovers sigh and swowne.

Then shalt thou know beauty but lent

And wish and want as I have done.

Jaskier suppressed a yawn and, after adding a bit more wood to the fire so it would burn through the night and checking that the fire would not spread, leaned back against the tree behind him. He would need his energy tomorrow to make it to Oxenfurt before the city gates closed. He carefully placed his lute next to him, softly humming to give his voice a proper cooling down. ‘This is it, my sweet,’ he whispered softly in-between hums. ‘No more carefree playing for you.’ He did not even bother to wipe away the tears from his cheeks. Tomorrow, Jaskier the Bard would become Professor Julian Pankratz. Tomorrow, he would have to go back to the days where he had to hide his playing from the world, finding spaces where nobody could see his fingers touch the strings as if they had found their home. So, in a sombre, soft tone, Jaskier sang the final verse of his song acapella, heard only by the insects on the ground and the grey owl in the tree high above him.

Now cease my lute this is the last

Labour that thou and I shall wast,

And ended is that we begonne.

Now is this song both song and past,

My lute be still for I have done.

#the witcher #the witcher ff #jaskier #geraskier #q #onceuponadisneyqueue #The Lover Complayneth The Unkindnes of His Love #wyatt #written by me #made by me #My lute be still for I have done #Onceuponadisneypotter #Half a Century of Poetry

19 notes · View notes

narniaandplowmen · 4 years

Text

the something to be found

Fandom: The Witcher Pairing: Geralt/Jaskier Also on AO3 5062 words.

Part 2 of the to say the truth (or lose his love) series

General Audiences / No Archive Warnings Apply Complete

Jaskier and Geralt travel to a small village so they can join the Fae's Summer Solstice celebrations. Jaskier has his gift for the thousandth anniversary of his mother’s coronation prepared, but there is a nagging feeling like there is something else he has to bring to Court.

They had arrived in the village two days before Summer Solstice, and Jaskier could already feel the presence of his mother. Geralt had noticed it too, of course he had.

“Want to go early?”

Jaskier thought for a moment. “No, let’s stay in the village for a while still. They might have a contract and I can perform. Cheer them up. And joining the Court doesn’t… Doesn’t feel right. There is something here, but I’m not sure what.” That was true. Jaskier felt– something. It was unclear what exactly, but it felt as if part of his mother’s Court was already inside the village, even though he knew it couldn’t be. The first Circle was over a mile away, after all.

“Hm.”

“Yes. Hm.”

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Maira looked down at the forest floor with a frown. She had tried to deny it for the past few days, but it seemed that the time of lying to herself and chalking the strange appearances in the forest up to ‘mere coincidence’ was over. Her village had new neighbours. Fae. Of course she recognised them. She would be a pretty bad healer if she didn’t. Or, well, maybe her position as healer was not completely the reason for recognising the arrival of a Court. She was sure that Jane, her young apprentice, a lovely girl with soft hands and kind eyes, would not recognise a Court if she tripped over it, even though she was remarkably talented in the art of healing. It hadn’t escaped Maira’s notice that the village people had slowly started to prefer her apprentice over her. Nothing much had changed in that regard, anyway. The people she grew up with, who had bullied her, called her names and threw rocks at her, had always been annoyed when they were forced to come to her for help. The oddball, the witch, the changeling.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

The village had been warm and welcoming, happy to have someone to kill the drowners in a lake a little while south, and although they did not have a proper inn, the tavern did have a spare room for travellers.

“Two beds…” Jaskier noticed, disappointed.

“We’ll have just one at your home.”

“Then we will have to make up for lost time when we get there, won’t we?” Jaskier winked.

“I’m going to find the local smithery before taking on those drowners. Roach needs a new horseshoe, and my sword needs sharpening.” Before Jaskier could make a joke about another sword that needs sharpening, Geralt pressed a deep kiss to his husband’s lips.

“Will you be back in time for my performance tonight?”

“I’ll try not to be,” Geralt joked, kissing the mock-offended look from Jaskier’s face. “I know how much you love dramatic entrances.”

“Hmm, well, if being fashionably late is the only reason you are not there when I start I will forgive you, just this once. Stay safe.”

Geralt smiled and briefly brushed his hand over the bard’s thighs and up, softly squeezing before leaving the room now filled with the smell of arousal.

“Geral-” was the last he heard as he closed the door behind him with a smirk.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Maira did not remember a time where she was not an outcast. From an early age she had been strange, different from the rest of her peers. She was a quick learner, sure, but her time at school as mostly spent staring out of the window, wishing she was playing in the forest that surrounded their village for miles. She had, apparently, gone missing on multiple occasions, once even for an entire week. But each time she was found unharmed, if maybe a little tired, somewhere in the woods. It had been enough, however, for parents to start warning their children to stay away from ‘the baker’s kid’. But her time in the forest had given her a lot of knowledge on different plants, so Maira had done the only sensible thing, and became the village’s first-ever healer. Previously, a healer had to be fetched from the nearest village, an hour’s travel by horseback, meaning they would usually arrive too late. And although the people were grateful that Maira helped deliver babies, cure fevers and much, much more, she still heard children whisper cruel rumours, of people locked up in her basement or of attempts to switch the babies she helped deliver with Faerie children. None of them were true, of course. Maira loved to help and heal people, and as far as she knew a Court had only graced the village three times during her lifetime, and she had never interacted with them. She had wanted to, but she had always chickened out at the last moment. It had always felt… off. Maybe this time. Maybe this time she would approach them. Maira sighed, picked the last of her herbs and returned home.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Jaskier wandered through the village, but the uneasy feeling didn’t get stronger anywhere. It most certainly didn’t have anything to do with any of the people he chatted to, anyway. But it did bring him up to date with the village’s gossip, and resulted in some new tales he could tell at the thousandth anniversary of his mother’s coronation. And it was exactly that celebration that led him to find a calmer spot on the river. He had been working on a song to celebrate the occasion for months, but it still wasn’t enough. The song itself was, of course, he was not ashamed to admit that it was a really good piece. Written completely in Elder, it chronicled the wonderful deeds of his mother through her reign, the many adventures the Court had had and how it had survived and stayed strong through everything. He had practised the song over and over again, making slight adjustments until it was perfect. He had been confident it was the perfect gift, but since that morning he had suddenly started to doubt himself. There had to be something else, some other gift, something he could find in this village. Something more significant than a song. But he could for the life of him not come up with anything such a rural village could have to offer, and he could always think better when his thoughts were accompanied by the quiet sound of gently flowing water.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

The village was abuzz with the news that a Witcher and a bard had shown up. They had paid for a room for two nights. The Witcher would take care of those annoying drowners in the lake downstream, but the real delight was that the bard had promised to perform that evening in the local tavern. He was, supposedly, a very famous one. Or, at least, that was what he proclaimed himself. Maira had to choke back a laugh when she heard he called himself Jaskier, after the famous travelling bard of old. She supposed it made sense, for someone travelling with a Witcher as the real Jaskier had, but it was a somewhat vain thing to call yourself after the best bard to have ever lived. Maira did not believe he could ever live up to the legend, but, regardless of his skill, it would be nice to have some entertainment in the village. The last time a bard had travelled through was over five years ago. The village could use some joy, especially with the looming threat of the Court hanging over their heads, even though everyone but her was unaware of it. Maybe she could even quietly ask the Witcher to deal with the Fae. Not that she had anything to pay them with, but she could give him some ingredients for free. Dearest Martha was about to give birth, and she would loathe an actual changeling to be raised in the village.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Jaskier smiled broadly as he took the tiny, hastily-made stage in a corner of the tavern, lighted by several candles and two torches. The barkeep had told him it had been five years since the previous performer had travelled through town, which would explain the fact that seemingly the entire village had shown up to watch him perform. In other words, Jaskier was completely in his element, so much so that he could almost ignore that nagging feeling that there was something there. That something was definitely in the room, so, Jaskier had slowly started to realise when the people had started to arrive, the something might be a someone instead. But he knew his mother had not kept humans captive for centuries, and none of the people in the village, though good-looking, seemed to be his mother’s type. The moment Jaskier took the stage, however, all these worries were forgotten, making place for that wonderfully perfect feeling of performing and being alive.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

The bard was good. Really good. Maira almost thought he deserved his chosen name. The Witcher had returned mid-performance, soaking wet and covered in mud, and the bard had sung the old Toss a Coin song, written by his namesake. It had been marvellous, and now, the next morning, the entire village was the happiest she had ever seen. The bard had promised to perform the next evening as well, and the threat that ‘if you don’t behave, you can't come to the performance tonight’ caused every child to be on their very best behaviour. The pair had been invited to stay for the summer solstice celebration the day after, but they had refused. “I am very sorry, I would love to join your marvellous feast!” the bard had announced, “but I fear my companion and I have a previous engagement.” He refused to clarify what, exactly, that engagement was. His songs made clear that he was no stranger to royal courts, but there were none within a week’s travel from the village. Nor was anything else, really. Still, the bard had waved away all their questions with a smile and a song and it had been clear that no, the bard would not perform during the celebrations. But he would tonight, and that, for now, was more than enough.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

“It is nobody we talked to! And yet I still feel like there is something missing!”

“Jaskier, I cannot let you enslave-”

“And I won’t! Who do you think I am? Who do you think my mum is? That Nick deal is ages ago, and she regrets it.”

“Then why?”

Jaskier sighed. “I don’t know! And now I only have my song, and that’s not enough!”

“Your song is beautiful, Jaskier.”

“It is! But I am telling you, it isn’t complete enough!”

“It’s your mum, she’ll love it.”

“It’s her thousandth-” “Hush!” Jaskier was suddenly cut off as his Witcher carefully scanned their surroundings, suddenly spotting something behind them.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

As Maira returned from the forest to harvest some fresh honeysuckle, she spotted the pair alone, leaning against one of the trees. They seemed to be bickering about something, though neither looked genuinely upset.

“-telling you, it isn’t complete enough!”

“It’s your mum, she’ll love it.”

“It’s her thousandth-” “Hush!” the Witcher cut the bard off, looking around and spotting her. She smiled and waved, pretending she had not heard the conversation, and approached.

“Sir Witcher, thank you for getting rid of those drowners.” The white-haired man nodded. “I have a request, though I cannot pay you. But I am a healer, and I have quite a lot of herbs in my possession. I heard Witchers make potions to help in battle?”

Maira suddenly started to doubt herself as she looked at the stern, broadly built man, but he just nodded again. “I might be able to help you replenish your stock, free of charge.”

“What do you need?”

“I have found evidence of a Fae Court near the village, sir Witcher.” She expected the man to scowl, or the bard to shiver with fear, but instead the Witcher smiled and the bard laughed.

“We know!” the bard said, happily. “It’s the reason we’re here!”

“Shut up, Jaskier.” There was a warning in the Witcher’s voice, but it did not seem to frighten the bard in the least. He turned back to her. “I can assure you that the Court will not pose a threat to you or your village.” His tone was a clear dismissal. “Do you have wormwood?”

“Yes.”

“Hm.”

“He means that we would love to buy some of your herbs and pay for them.” The bard translated helpfully. “If you can miss them.”

“Oh, of course. You can come to my house in an hour. It’s on the other side of town, near the well.”

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Aside from his mistrust of the woman most certainly overhearing a part of their conversation, Geralt had to admire the healer. She had many herbs and other potion ingredients, carefully labelled and, according to the labels, very precisely harvested. A lot of the ingredients were not even of use to any healer, yet the contents of the jars and bottles seemed relatively fresh. She truly knew her stuff. Behind him, Jaskier was trying to extract the village gossip from her, shamelessly flirting and improvising a ditty rhyming mole with soul, something Geralt would have to find a suitable… punishment for, he supposed. He could not help but sigh with fondness listening to his bard’s rambling. Lambert had been right, love had made him soft. But he had not been right in thinking that a weakness. Geralt had yet to falter in a fight, but when he was safe he allowed himself to feel, and to show his feelings. Jaskier had quite aggressively stomped his old ‘Witchers don’t have feelings’-mantra out during their travels, and, Geralt considered as he turned the silver wedding band around his finger, trying to claim he didn’t feel was pretty pointless by now. A sudden gasp woke him from his musings, and he swirled around just in time to see the healer’s birthmark in the shape of some sort of flower. Making eye contact with Jaskier confirmed his suspicions: the something Jaskier was looking for wasn’t an item or a slave, but a lost Fae.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

As the Witcher examined her supplies, the bard tried to extract the village gossip from her, shamelessly flirting. She didn’t mind too much though, as the bard was entertaining, to say the least. “Your supplies are better organised than those at Aretuza!” he had exclaimed as he had entered. His compliments were most certainly lies, for she did not believe the bard had ever even been remotely near Aretuza, let alone been inside of it, but it was lovely nonetheless. “Your charm won’t work on me, bard” Maira laughed after he had created a little ditty about Maira oh so dear / her soft hands you should not fear / she heals your skin, your bone, your mole / yet she cannot heal my wounded soul. “I am too old and strange to be wooed.”

“Old and strange happens to be exactly my type,” the bard exclaimed, with a pointed look at the Witcher – Geralt, she had learned by now – who merely sighed with fondness. With a surprised shock, Maira suddenly noticed the pair wore wedding rings. She felt a pang of pain as she realised that the poor Witcher was doomed to lose his mortal husband whilst never ageing himself.

“Well, if that is the case, I also have some excellent oils here somewhere…” Maira opened a few cupboards, trying to remember where she left them. Jonathan and Adam, the smiths, had passed away last year, and ever since there had been no demand for the scented oils. As she tried to reach for one of the higher cupboards, she heard the bard gasp. Maira closed her eyes and sighed and knew he had seen the buttercup-shaped spot on her ankle.

“It’s just a birthmark. I am no witch, I am not cursed, and I will not hurt you.”

The bard did not reply, simply briefly making eye contact with his husband, but he kept staring at her strangely throughout the rest of his visit. He tried to hide it, but she had a feeling the man was not very good at hiding his feelings. They paid well though, and who was she to complain about that? It wasn’t like they were the first to look at her strangely after discovering her mark. She wasn’t a changeling, her parents had assured her that much. She had been born with the mark, though back then not yet so well-defined, and her father had always told her it was nothing to be embarrassed about, baking cookies and bread rolls in the shape of the buttercup it had eventually formed into. It hadn’t helped the bullying, and it hadn’t kept her from feeling off every time she traced the mark with her fingers, but it was nice nonetheless.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

“She’s a Fae,” Jaskier stated the moment the door to their room closed behind them.

“She’s old. She’s ageing.”

“She must be half-Fae. And one from my mum’s Court, she has to be. Didn’t you see the buttercup mark? If she has never visited a Circle before she would still age!” Jaskier slowly started to become more and more enthusiastic. “Don’t you see, it’s her! She is the something!”

“And what are you going to do? Kidnap the village’s only healer?”

“She isn’t the only healer, she has a very talented apprentice, and most people prefer the apprentice anyway, they’re too scared of Maira. And come on, you must have heard what those friends told that sneezing kid about ‘the crazy witch healer’.”

“Kidnapping is still frowned upon.” Geralt remarked.

Jaskier sighed. “Get out of here with your logic. She’s a Fae and she doesn’t even know it! I wonder who her parents are… Do you think her mum’s a Fae? Or maybe her dad?”

“Hm.”

“Helpful, as ever.”

“That’s what I’m here for, bard.”

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

That evening Maira joined the rest of the crowd in the tavern to listen to the bard’s second, and final, performance. From her hidden spot – nobody liked to look at the person who had seen them at their weakest whilst partying – she observed the man on stage, remembering how he had stared at her. There was nothing of that strange glow in his eyes now. No, during his performance the man brightened the whole room, and looking at him made you feel like he truly knew what it was like to celebrate and enjoy life. He sang song after song, occasionally taking a little break to tell the stories that inspired them.

“One day, Geralt was told he had to fight a cockatrice. Turned out the village was really attacked by a gryffin. But I can tell that you are much smarter than the people from that village, and you would not make such a grievously stupid mistake.”

“One day we were travelling and we accidentally awoke a Kikimore. Or, well, I accidentally awoke a Kikimore and had Geralt clean up the mess.”

“I sang this song at the Cintran court once, of course Queen Calanthe was not happy-” At this comment he briefly turned red and quickly started playing.

Maira frowned. There had not been a Queen Calanthe for almost a century, not after the sacking of Cintra by the Nilfgaardians. And there was no way that the bard had visited her court, for he looked thirty years old at most. Now the Witcher, he could possibly be that ancient. But if he was one of the first created Witchers, not those created in the past hundred years during the Witcher Resurgence, he had been very lucky indeed to stay alive that long. Or very cowardly, but, for some reason, she doubted that.

Jaskier ended the night with an ancient lullaby, and Maira was about to leave the tavern when something the old Andrews widow asked stopped her in her tracks.

“Where did you learn that last lullaby, boy? My grandmother used to sing it to me, and I have not heard it in ages.”

The bard smiled kindly. “At Oxenfurt, madam.”

In the dark light of the tavern, Maira could barely see the ancient woman, bent over and heavily leaning on her staff, tired from staying up so late, shake her head. “I thought Oxenfurt burned down fifty years ago.”

A flash of hurt could be found on Jaskier’s face, but just briefly. “That is true. I-” It seemed like he was trying to say something, but physically unable to do so. “I-” He thought for a moment. “I have heard my mother si-” a grunt, as if the words hurt him. “Play it. I am happy to see you enjoyed it. Do you need help to get home?” the bard skilfully distracted the old woman from the question which seemed so painful.

Maira looked at the Witcher, staring at Jaskier with a look of concern. There was something about those two that was off. She couldn’t exactly put her finger on it, but the combination of the Witcher, who must have lived for centuries now, and the bard’s strange, out-of-place historical references made her feel like there was more to the pair than she anticipated.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Geralt slammed the door shut behind them. “You really need to stop that.”

“Stop what?”

“Talking!”

Jaskier looked offended. “Excuse me? I thought we were past this ‘ooh I am Geralt hurr-durr I only want silence and loneliness and a pitiful life’-thing!”

“That’s not what I meant! But one day people will find out, if you keep talking about Oxenfurt and Queen Calanthe! They don’t exist anymo-”

“I KNOW!” Jaskier cut him off, a painful look on his face. “I know,” he repeated, calmer. “But it’s not like I can lie about it. Fae, remember?”

“I thought Fae were supposed to be able to talk around these situations.” Geralt grumbled.

“I’m out of practice. As you may have noticed, I have not spent a lot of time in Court the past few decades.”

“I know Jaskier. But you have to be more careful. You shouldn’t have spread that ballad about a Fae prince travelling with a Witcher, it’s going to be the death of us one day.”

“And what a way to go. Don’t tell me you don’t like that ballad, I know you do.”

Geralt smiled. He indeed could not deny that, it was a really good song, regardless of the danger it could bring them in.

“Now, why don’t you help me with a plan to get Maira with us to Court. How do you feel about kidnapping? Can we temporarily poison her so she’s knocked out?”

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Before going home, Maira took Jane with her to harvest some cattails along the river.

“Do you remember how to harvest them?”

“Always at night, and only when you are in a happy mood,” Jane dutifully recited. “And make sure not to touch the brown bits.”

Maira nodded. “I think this village has no use for me anymore,” she only half-joked. “You are a smart woman, I’m proud of you.” Maira had painful memories of her own apprenticeship under a severe man, who had always criticised her. She, all those years ago, had told herself to never be that cruel should she ever get an apprentice herself. And she had, so far, lived up to that promise.

“Thank you,” Jane smiled, and the two went to work.

“What are you humming?”

“Oh! I don’t know actually…” Jane paused her work for a moment and, with a concentrated face continued humming till she reached the chorus.

“And a hey, ho, Witcher and Fae

And a hey, ho, chasing monsters away

Hey, ho forever and day

Hey, ho true lovers are they

It’s that old ballad of the Witcher travelling with the Fae prince. I think I was reminded of it because of the Witcher in our midst right now. Do you reckon he knows that Fae prince? Do you think they have ever met?”

Maira had once seen a strange wooden toy in a carpenter’s store. It was a box with 6 colourful sides, and each side made up of three by three blocks. He could turn them around to mix up the colours, and for a halfpenny you could try to make the sides match again. When the colours were aligned, the box opened with a loud click and you could claim the treasure inside. She had managed to solve that puzzle once, and Maira remembered how, after a while of aimlessly turning, she had suddenly seen the solution. And now she felt the exact same.

The Witcher hadn’t just met the Fae prince, the Witcher was travelling with the Fae prince. But that meant that Jaskier was – that meant that the bard was the famous Jaskier. Maira shook her head, unwilling to believe her own conclusions, but the more she thought about it, the more it made sense. Travelling with a Witcher, mentioning Aretuza, Queen Calanthe and Oxenfurt… And now that she thought about it, she believed she had heard the bard mention the Battle of Sodden Hill the previous night as well.

“I think we have enough cattails for now. Go to bed, tomorrow's the Summer Solstice, you'll need the energy for the celebrations.”

And both still in a daze, Jane dreaming of a Fae prince and Maira connecting more and more dots about the very real Fae prince present in the village, the two went home.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

“Are you sure we can’t just kidnap her, Geralt?”

“I am very sure.”

Jaskier sighed. The two had barely slept, and were now, at first light, walking towards the healer’s cottage. “Then what should I say? ‘Hi, I am Jaskier, the High Prince of the Summer Court, and I happened to notice you’re at least half-Fae, want to come attend my mother’s thousandth coronation party?’”

“Well, you can maybe tone it down on the title-dropping, but yes, that sounds good.”

“Just a teensy-tiny kidnap?”

Before Geralt could answer that, or before any of the two could knock, the door to Maira’s cottage opened.

“Your majesty the Fae prince, I presume?”

Jaskier gaped.

“I’m sorry, I promise I will not tell anyone. Just please- please tell me how it is in a Fae Court. I’ve-” the middle-aged woman looked shy. “I’ve always wanted to see one up close.”

Jaskier just continued to stare. “You- know?”

“I think I am the only one who figured it out. But with your references to Queen Calanthe and Oxenfurt and...” Her voice faltered

“Oh. Okay. Good. Good. So. Ehm. Wait. This was not in the script I had mentally prepared. Can we do this again? Hi, I am Jaskier, the High Prince of the Summer Court, and I happened to notice you’re at least half-Fae, want to come attend my mother’s thousandth coronation party?”

Geralt punched him in the ribs.

“I’m what?”

“Ow- Half-Fae... Ooww Geralt, just because I’m immortal does not mean I can’t feel pain.”

“I am aware of that.”

“I will get you back for that.”

“I’d like to see you try.”

“Ahem.”

“Oh. Sorry. So, we’re going to my mum’s Court, want to come with? Do you have any idea which of your parents could be Fae? I bet it’s your father. You look a bit like Hawthorn. Doesn’t she look a bit like Hawthorn, Geralt?”

“I am very sorry, but I- I am not a changeling. My parents assured me they kept a constant eye on me in the first weeks of my life. There is no way-”

“I didn’t say changeling! There haven’t been changelings in years. I said half-Fae. Totally different. Changelings are fully Fae.”

“But- how?”

“Your birthmark. It’s not just an ordinary birthmark, it’s the sign of my mother’s Court. Everyone who belongs to the Court has one, it’s a convenient way to keep track of who belongs to which Queen, you know. And you're lucky you belong to us, those ruled by Sindri have a rock, can you ima-?”

“What Jaskier means,” Geralt interrupted. “Is that the buttercup mark on your ankle is not simply a birthmark or a weirdly shaped freckle. It’s a sign that at least one of your parents were part of the Court of Jaskier’s mother. I understand this is a lot to take in but-”

“Yes.”

“What?”

“I will come with you. Yes. Please. I- Let me just leave a note for Jane.”

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

And so they went, the three of them, into the woods. As Jade returned to Maira’s cottage a day after the celebrations, she found a lifeless house with a simple note on the kitchen table, informing her that the place was all hers, and that she would be a more appropriate healer for the village than Maira could ever be. Although she originally panicked, she indeed quickly grew into her role as primary healer, her first big triumph being successfully helping Martha give birth to a wonderfully healthy baby boy.

Maira was never seen again, nor would anyone have recognised her if she had. Upon stepping into the Fae Circle the years had glided off of her like water off a duck’s back. She was warmly welcomed as the missing piece for the wonderful festivities. Hawthorn, who indeed was her biological father, had explained that Maira’s father had been born in the body of a woman and that, after saving Hawthorn's life, Maira’s parents had made a deal with him so that Maira’s mother would become pregnant.

Jaskier’s long ballad of his mother’s many achievements was welcomed with cheers and awe, and, after al the celebrations were over and done, Geralt and Jaskier retreated to the former’s room, which did contain only one bed, thank you very much. It was completely beside the point that that particular bed was twice the size as the entire guestroom in the village had been, but what was important was that the two more than made up for lost time. Geralt made sure to properly punish Jaskier for his awful mole/soul rhyme and Jaskier made Geralt pay for his punch in the ribs.

And it is perhaps a surprise to nobody that, as Jane was training her own apprentice, a soft-spoken young boy dark hair, a troubadour travelled through town with a song of a baker in love, a Fae in peril, and a half-Fae healer who attends the Court’s injuries and bakes the best bread-rolls anyone has ever tasted.

#the witcher #the witcher ff #geralt of rivia #geraskier #jaskier #maira #geraskier ff #q #onceuponadisneyqueue #the something to be found #Onceuponadisneypotter #written by me #made by me #to say the truth (or lose his love)

13 notes · View notes

narniaandplowmen · 4 years

Text

Mysterious Fathoms Below (8/8)

Fandom: OUAT Pairing: Captain Swan Also on AO3

Rated: General Audiences Complete Full Fic is 12005 words

Summary: When a storm throws Killian overboard, a mysterious mermaid who saves him. Now it is up to him to save her and bring her back home.

[first chapter] • [previous chapter]

CHAPTER 8 - And They Lived...

Emma was worried. Although she did not like to admit it, Emma Swan, Princess of Atlantia, Heir to the Seven Seas, was worried. And scared. It had been weeks since she last saw Killian, but no one had seen him since. She had asked around, and some of the guards had asked the humans on the shore. One of them had seen Killian, and he recalled him buying supplies for an inland journey. That was all Emma had to go on. Although they had not spoken about meeting soon, she assumed that it was implied in the time they had spent together when she had ran away. Her old fears of abandonment were creeping in again, and Emma did not like it. For every second she spent away from Killian she had to admit that she missed him. And missing someone meant you cared for them. And Emma realised – though she refused to admit it – that she didn’t just care for Killian. His ship had been found, but Killian had not been on it. The crew hadn’t seen him since their mutiny, and although they seemed to regret their actions, their new captain named Blackbeard was very quick to drive the merman interrogating them away. Emma tried to concentrate on learning her Royal Duties – something she had decided to pick up herself on her own schedule – but it was difficult, to say the least. Luckily, her parents took time out of most of their days to do something with her, and she slowly but surely started to get used to having parents. After her magic outburst, they had also hired a very kind merwitch to teach her to control this newfound power. However, most of her magic seemed to have disappeared, as if it had only been there for those couple of hours with Killian and then vanished.

“Is something wrong, Emma?” A voice suddenly interrupted her thoughts. Her mother stood in front of her, looking worried. “You were frowning.”

“Oh,” Emma replied. “It’s nothing, I was just- lost in thought, I guess. Why are you here?” The Queen almost never came to the seating area of the library, since she preferred to read outside.

“I wanted to fetch you. There is a guest for you, waiting in the throne room!”

~ ~ ~ ~

Lying in bed, Killian still could barely believe what had happened that day. Only this morning he had awoken from his make-shift shelter on the forest floor and prepared himself to go to the most dangerous place he knew, aside from Neverland. Now, he was lying in one of the guest bedrooms in the house of his biggest enemy as a welcomed guest. He had met up with someone he never thought he would see again and the Dark One turned out to be married. He groaned as he turned around in his bed, and he cursed the day he fell off his ship and got rescued by Emma. Suddenly, he heard a voice in his room.

“Now dearie, speak the truth. Are you here to kill me?” Killian jumped out of bed and looked right in the face of the man he so despised.

“No, Crocodile. For once, that was not my goal,” he simply replied. The Dark One looked at him curiously.

“You’re speaking the truth. How quaint.”

“Now that Belle is asleep, are you going to kill me?”

“Even though it may surprise you to hear it, no. Actually, I am going to give that magical wristband and wave you out tomorrow. I might even be so kind as to teleport you to the Enchanted Forest’s main seaport.”

“I know you, Crocodile. You only give things if you get something in return. What is it you want? My ship? A magic bean? My first-born child?”

Rumpelstiltskin giggled. “Nothing of the sort, dearie. Unless you have a firstborn child you want to get rid of?”

Killian shot him an angry stare.

“What I want is quite simple. I want you to never return here again. As long as Belle lives, I want you to let go of your vengeance and let me and my wife live in peace. That is my deal.”

Killian raised his eyebrows. “What’s the catch?”

“There is none. Don’t ever come near me or my wife again, and the wristband and your freedom are yours.”

“Belle said she wanted to see me more often.”

“She will get over it.”

Killian huffed. “Fine. You will give me the wristband and I will leave tomorrow, never to return. But I am not responsible for Belle's actions.”

And so he did. After a drawn-out goodbye and some tears on Belle’s side, Rumpelstiltskin kept his promise and teleported him to the busy streets of the Enchanted Forest’s main harbour. Of course, Killian landed in a pile of rotten fish, on purpose no doubt. After quietly cursing, he climbed out of the pile and started walking, not even bothering to wipe himself off. It would wash out in the sea anyway. It didn’t take him long to reach the cove where he met Ariel. He figured that having a tail would take some getting used to, and he was not planning on doing that in view of the entire harbour.

~ ~ ~ ~

Emma followed her mother, surprised. Queen Snow seemed extraordinarily excited, and it was nothing for her to keep a secret. The previous two visits they had had were well-prepared, and she had been briefed extensively on who the guests were, why they were visiting and how to behave. This impromptu visit was very strange. She wondered who it could be. Maybe Ruby had returned from her trip. No, that would not count as a visitor. Who else could it be? Had someone shown up and claimed to be her best friend from before? Was it an ex? A sudden horror overtook her. What if it was Neal, claiming to be her boyfriend?

“Who is it, mom?” she asked again, but to no avail.

“You will see!” was the only answer she got. They turned and after greeting the stationed guards Snow White opened the small door that led to the back of the throne room. Emma followed her, still wondering who their guest might be.

~ ~ ~ ~

Turned out his hunch had been correct. Swimming was not that difficult, but steering was. Without Ariel's help - given through wheezing laughs as Killian swam smack-dab into the seafloor on multiple occasions - he was sure he would still be practising a month from now. Having only one rather than two lower limbs was surprisingly difficult, and breathing underwater was strange, to say the least. And, without her help, he would never have been able to reach the castle. But the struggles had been worth it, Killian considered, as he saw the blonde mermaid appear behind one of the thrones in front of him. She looked around, confused, and ready to ask her mother next to her something when her eye fell on him. He had never once in his life saw a princess, or anyone for that matter, look this surprised in his entire life. He had to admit, the change was quite drastic. Instead of a human pair of legs, he now sported a long, black, shining tail with waving thin fins, and instead of his usual captain’s coat, he was now only wearing a white, see-through shirt. He was struggling to float whilst staying upwards, and he spread his arms a little to regain his balance. Suddenly, a force hit him and he was toppled upside down. But after he felt familiar lips touch his mouth, he knew he really did not mind.

~ ~ ~ ~

Emma looked in total shock at the man – merman – in front of her. It was Killian, but it wasn’t. It was Killian with a tail. And he looked incredibly handsome. “But- How?” she whispered, and her mother, still next to her, answered.

“He has a magical wristband, one of only two that exist! A very talented merwitch made them, a long time ago. It grants the wearer the ability to switch between a tail and legs.” Emma nodded, but the words didn’t fully register in her mind. Then, Killian opened his arms to gain balance and Emma sped towards him, into his arms, pressing her lips on his. He was here, with her, as a merman. He was safe. He came back to her.

“I love you,” she whispered.

“I love you too,” he answered.

~ ~ ~ ~

Years and years later, many tales were told about the remarkable King and Queen of Atlantia. The Queen, everyone knew, was kidnapped as a child and not found until years later. The King, it was rumoured, used to be a human, a Pirate Captain, the most fearsome of the Seven Seas and beyond, until he met the princess and returned her to her parents. Their rule was long, kind and fruitful, and was known for the many good relationships built between man and merkind. And, rumour has it, when it storms on your birthday, you might just meet your own true love.

#ouat #ouat au #ouat ff #cs au #cs ff #emma swan #mermaid!emma #killian jones #mermaid!killian #snow white #mermaid!snow #mysterious fathoms below #q #onceuponadisneyqueue #reposting

11 notes · View notes

narniaandplowmen · 3 years

Photo

#walt disney #q #onceuponadisneyqueue #saving mr banks #disney #disney live action #mickey mouse

4 notes · View notes

narniaandplowmen · 4 years

Photo

Children of Zeus (2/5) ← • →

#children of zeus #helen of troy #leta #zeus #greek mythology #mythology #poetry #poem #art #written by me #made by me #yes that insta is partially mine #tw: rape #tw: murder #q #onceuponadisneypotter #onceuponadisneyqueue #menelaus

15 notes · View notes

narniaandplowmen · 4 years

Text

Mysterious Fathoms Below (2/8)

Fandom: OUAT Pairing: Captain Swan Also on AO3

Rated: General Audiences Complete Full Fic is 12005 words

Summary: When a storm throws Killian overboard, a mysterious mermaid who saves him. Now it is up to him to save her and bring her back home.

[first chapter] • [previous chapter] • [next chapter]

CHAPTER 2 - This Is Not A Fairy Tale

Sand. He was laying on sand. Killian rolls over and vomits. He’d expected the afterlife to be a bit more pleasant than this. Another cough. Nope, definitely not pleasant. Oh well, what could he have expected? It's not like he was heaven-material anyway. Suddenly, a demanding voice sounds behind him.

“Who are you and how do you know my name?” Killian turns and blinks. A woman was sitting on a rock next to him, looking at him angrily. Blonde hair, green eyes-

“You're the mermaid who tried to drown me!” He would have sounded more threatening if his voice didn't sound like he had just eaten a bag full of flour. The brief look of guilt confirms Killian's suspicions. He looked down, noticing that she traded her magnificent tail for a simple pair of legs.

“Stop staring. How did you know my name?” she repeats, urgently.

~ ~ ~ ~

“Your Majesties.“ Killian looked sideways to his brother whilst the mermaid King and Queen rise of the water. “We welcome you.” the Captain of the Royal Navy continues.

“Thank you, Captain.” the voice of the lovely Queen is filled with grief. “

You said you had an urgent matter to discuss?”

The Queen sobs in reply. Killian raises an eyebrow, but Liam looks at him with a warning glance. “That storm a week ago -” the King starts. He breaths heavily. “That was not a natural storm. The Sea Witch used it to whisk away our daughter. Now she is missing. She could be in any realm, in all water. Please ask your men to look for her. Those who find her will get a royal reward.”

~ ~ ~ ~

“Your tattoo.” Killian says, his voice rasping from the salt water in his lungs. The blonde looks down at her wrist, a small buttercup looking up.

“What’s with it? And it’s not a tattoo. It’s a mermaid thing.” she sounds offended.

“Whatever you say, love.” Killian replies. He grabs his belt. Good, his bottle of rum was still there. He would need it if his suspicions were correct. He quickly emptied it, glad for the extra money he spent on a good-quality flask. His drowning didn't ruin his favourite drink too much. “A long time ago I-” Killian hesitated. “I met two mermaids looking for their daughter who- who got lost in a storm. They described that tat- that mark of yours. Said it was unique.”

Emma huffed. "You're lying. My parents aren't looking for me. This isn’t a fairy tale, sailor, and you are not going to get through to me by pretending you know me. I can drag you back down any moment.” she turned around, lost in memory.

~ ~ ~ ~

“Look at that, such a poor babe. Must have been left here by her mother.”

“Listen Ava, I know what you’re thinking. We can’t keep her, we’re already struggling to make ends meet. We must think of our own children first.”

“ You’re right, Sev. But we can’t just leave her here. She’ll get eaten by the very first shark! Or she’ll starve to death.”

“Let us bring her to the orphanage, they will take care of her there.”

~ ~ ~ ~

“Which realm are we in, love?” the man she saved - why did she save him again? - distracted Emma from her memories of the orphanage. She shrugged.

“Why would I tell you?”

“Because, if I am honest, there are some realms where I would prefer you drowning me over staying in them.”

“Well, I do not know how you humans call it, but we are on a small island on the coast of Anaheim.” Killian groaned. He hated Anaheim, especially its bratty king. And he may or may not have gotten into trouble with the royal guard a couple of times. “It's my home,” Emma added, not sure why she was telling him this.

“Well, love,” Killian slowly got up. “Your parents live in the oceans around the Enchanted Forest. I believe you call it Atlantia?”

“Sit back down. I still don't believe you. And don't call me love.” Emma sneered, pointing a dagger at his throat.

“Then tell me, lo-” Killian halted when he saw the death-glare in the mermaid's face. Gesturing at his wounded arm, bruised legs and endless sea behind him, he continued. “Do I look like I am in any position to lie to you?”

“Isn't that all humans do?” Emma retorted, just about done with this black-haired, surprisingly handsome human.

“Listen. I have no time for your personal grudges with my kind. I have to get back to my ship before my crew wrecks it. I have no place to go, seeing as this is an island. Without you, I would have probably been dead. I am not lying to you.” Emma got up to face him.

“Those are all very sweet words, sailor. But I don’t believe a word you said. You’re lucky I haven't killed you yet. Don’t move.” With two steps, she was back in the water and gone.

~ ~ ~ ~

“Wake up. Eat this. We’re leaving in a couple of minutes. You’ll be able to breathe underwater for an hour. I’m bringing you back to your ship, your crewmen are back in the realm you call ‘enchanted forest’. I’ll leave you close to port, you’ll have to swim the rest yourself.” Killian slowly opened his eyes. It was dark out, the stars sparkling as if it was their last night.

“Ah, you have returned. You know, you could have at least left me a blanket, it is freezing in-” the rest of his complaints were abruptly halted by the salt taste of seaweed in his mouth.

“Eat. We have to hurry, I'm going to get into trouble because of you.” Killian swallowed, looking at her incredulously.

“You, in trouble because of me? I am aware I have gotten many ladies into trouble, but-”

“Shut up, I don't want to hear about your escapades. Let's go.” Emma tugged his hand and before Killian knew it, he was underwater again. This time, however, it was a much more pleasant experience. The water was dark but calm, and somehow he could still clearly see. The sands beneath him shone golden, and far in the distance, he could see the outlines of an underwater city.

“The underwater world looks a whole lot better when you're not drowning.” Killian quipped, holding on to the blonde mermaid as she dragged him through the cold waters. Emma didn't reply but only swam faster, ignoring the fish around her, even when they were in her way. After a couple of minutes, the water around them started streaming faster and faster until suddenly, the ocean floor disappeared and they were falling off the edge of the world. Killian closed his eyes and screamed until he was suddenly engulfed in silence.

He quietly opened one eye, and then the other. They were swimming in an ocean again.

“I thought sailors were supposed to be brave,” Emma huffed. “We're almost there.” Killian shot her an angry look.

“You could have warned me. And I am not a sailor, I am a Captain.”

“Warning you is way less entertaining,” the blonde smiled back.

“And you are a pirate, I should have drowned you when I had the chance.” A couple of minutes later, he felt his breath begin to falter as more and more water filled his mouth. They reached the surface just in time and gasped for air. “Your ship is docked at King Midas' port, a two-minute swim from here. It's damaged, but it still floats. Forget this ever happened. Next time you drown, I won't be there to save you.” Emma turned to swim away.

“WAIT!” Killian grabbed her arm. “What about your parents? They are looking for you!”. Emma simply raised an eyebrow.

“Has anyone already told you that happy endings are only for heroes?” With a firm kick of her tail, she disappeared in the waves. Killian looked at where she had disappeared, then turned and started swimming.

#ouat #ouat ff #ouat au #cs au #cs ff #captain swan #emma swan #mermaid!emma #killian jones #mysterious fathoms below #reposting #q #onceuponadisneyqueue #written by me

6 notes · View notes