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epiphany-of-a-madwoman · 3 years

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The Last Dragon | The Witcher

Chapter 14 | To Hunt a Monster

Pairing: Geralt of Rivia x Targaryen!OC

Summary: Visenya Targaryen is the eldest and only surviving child of Rhaegar Targaryen and Elia Martell. When Robert Baratheon’s rebellion was won, instead of being slaughtered by the Mountain like her mother and siblings, she was saved by Ned Stark and taken as his ward. Years later, after she’s killed at the Red Wedding, she wakes up outside Blaviken. Now she finds her destiny intertwined with the White Wolf on her quest to go back home.

Word Count: 5k

Note: Click here to read the previous chapters ♡ Also! My tag list is open! Double also! I took some liberties with the Alp, pls don’t hate me

Visenya swings her blade down, metal clanging against metal. A small bead of sweat runs down her forehead, falling from her brow bone and landing on the ground. She tosses her blade to the other hand, pulling it up just in time to block the incoming attack, their clashing swords forming a ‘T’. She nimbly moves to the side, and away from her opponent, breaking away from his sword. With otherworldly grace, Visenya whirls around in a half-circle, now standing behind him, pushing her blade forward to pierce through his back. He turns around, jumping back before the hit makes contact, pushing it out of the way with his own.

Metal rings in the clearing as they continue their deadly dance. Geralt kicks his leg out, centimeters away from hitting Visenya’s knees. She brings her blade down in a half crescent shape, smacking the side of his leg with the flat part of her blade. He grunts out a laugh, unbothered by the hit, but it allows Visenya to jump back from his assault.

“You’ll have to do better than that, White Wolf,” Visenya teases, bouncing on the balls of her feet as she awaits Geralt’s next move. He snorts and lunges towards her once more. She sidesteps him, using her smaller size to her advantage. She laughs, the sound blending yet also clashing with the sound of two blades meeting in a bind.

“You’re too arrogant,” Geralt says, pressing against her blade with more force.

He smiles, a smile that’s all teeth, nearly feral looking. Visenya's arm begins to shake, her strength quickly dwindling. But before she can attempt to pull back, Geralt suddenly drops his blade, the lack of resistance causing Visenya to stumble forward. At the same time, he sweeps his leg out, her stumble morphing into a fall.

Thud.

Visenya lands on her back, sword falling out of her hand. Without hesitation Geralt kicks it out of her reach, pointing his sword at her throat.

“It’ll get you killed.” His tone is grim, face set in a deep scowl. “--again,” he adds as an afterthought. Her confession from weeks ago is still fresh, pushed to the forefront of his mind every time he so much as glances at her.

“Well if you didn’t play cheap,” Visenya says, minor annoyance etching a deep scowl onto her face.

“There is no such thing as playing cheap when it comes to fighting. You either win or you don’t,” Geralt says, scolding her like a father would an unruly and stubborn child. But if he’s as old as Visenya thinks, she might as well be.

“Whatever,” Visenya mutters, not moving from her position on the ground, instead she moves her gaze upwards. Threads of dawn emboss the sky, rays of pink and orange tinting it, their vivid colors offset by opalescent clouds. It’s quiet, nearly too quiet, if not for her rapid inhale and exhale of breath.

“You’re good, but you’re too wild,” Geralt says. He tosses his blade aside, reaching a hand down to help her up. Her face flushes red from exerting too much energy, with breathes that're too quick, the spar taking more of her energy up than it should’ve. Then again, for years her only constant companion had been Jaskier, and he ended up pricking three of his fingers before even fully lifting a sword. That was the last time she attempted to arm him.

“Don’t patronize me,” Visenya says, blowing away the stray hairs that fell out of her ponytail and onto her face.

“I’m not. I’m giving advice. Besides--” Geralt looks over at her, the corners of his mouth slowly pulling into a grin. His slightly sharper teeth give his grin a wolfish appearance, predatory and mischievous in nature. “--when did you become such a sore loser?” Geralt teases.

“I don’t know, around the time you got slow,” Visenya responds, grabbing onto Geralt’s outstretched hand. But instead of using it to pull herself up, she yanks on it with all of her remaining strength, causing Geralt to tumble to the ground.

His eyes are wide with bewilderment and shock, a small giggle bubbling from Visenya’s mouth, taking special notice of the green grass that mingles with his tangled white hair. Geralt scoffs, but there’s a small smile on his face that betrays his amusement, small droplets of dew on his hair that glisten in the sun, like tiny beams of light.

Visenya sits up, repositioning herself to be more comfortable on the ground. Geralt follows suit, shaking his head like a dog. Brown twigs and emerald leaves fly in the air and disappear into the sea of green that’s now tinged with dark brown.

Geralt opens his mouth and laughs, it’s not overly loud and merry sounding, but it’s more than he normally gives. The sound echoes in the small clearing, dancing away in the wind to bless someone else’s ears with the soft sound. His eyes shine in the light, causing him to almost look ethereal. Visenya smiles, her heartbeat speeding up, ever so slightly, and for the life of her she can’t figure out why.

“I meant it, you're improving,” Geralt says, placing his arms on his knees and staring at the trees that surround them.

“Are you saying I was a bad swordsman before?” Visenya teases, the smile on her face quickly evaporates, however, when Geralt doesn’t return the mirth. She scoffs and smacks his arm. “You are saying I was a bad swordsman!” she exclaims, disbelief causing a small laugh to escape her mouth. Ser Rodrik trained her himself and before him, Jon. Two of the best swordsmen in the North trained her, a bad fighter is the absolute last thing Visenya would label herself as.

“No, just...chaotic,” Geralt says, seemingly unbothered by her assault.

“And that’s supposed to make me feel better?” Visenya asks, raising a brow at him.

“No, but it’s the truth. You fight well, but you fight without control or discipline.” Geralt says.

“So I’m unruly?”

“Like a tornado or a wild animal,” Geralt says, a smirk on his face. Visenya rolls her eyes, smacking him once again - just for good measure. With a huff, she tightens her ponytail, pushing away the sweat coated baby hairs that stick to her forehead. She stands from the floor, walking towards the edge of the clearing where her leather bag is haphazardly resting against a tree. Crouching down and opening the main pouch, she pulls out two apples - one red and the other green. She tosses the red one in the air once, then launches it at Geralt as soon as it grazes her palm. He catches it with ease, not even bothering to look in her direction. Visenya smirks, taking a bite out of the remaining apple.

“Would you believe me if I said I was raised by wolves?” Visenya asks. There’s a smirk on her lips, a gleam in her eyes that says she’s in on a joke that no one else knows. And she revels in it.

“Yes,” Geralt simply replies, eyes wandering towards the sky, basking in the calm that seems so fleeting when on the road with a monster hunter.

“Well, I choose to take both of those answers as a compliment. It just means I’m a force to be reckoned with in - and out - of combat. I think my ancestor and namesake would come back from the dead just to murder me if I wasn’t a half-decent fighter,” Visenya says, staring up at the thick canopy above her. She inches closer into the forest, not committing to entering it completely, but getting close enough. The singing of birds in the distance soothing to her ringing ears, allowing her thoughts to pause if only for a moment.

“Hmm,” is Geralt’s only reply.

“She was a warrior queen, as comfortable in ringmail as she was in silks, as they say. She was legendary” Visenya says, wistfully staring into the trees, getting lost in the melancholy that usually follows when she thinks of her family.

She remembers the stories her Septa would tell her, and the old dusty books she’d find in the library. She can nearly taste the old stale dust that coated the books, flying into the air once her fingers made contact. But she also remembers her eyes desperately drinking in each word, fantasizing that she was the one flying on a dragon, so high in the sky no one could touch her.

Not Robert Baratheon, nor Tywin Lannister, not even The Mountain. But those were foolish daydreams of a child, who didn’t fully understand the nuances of things, nor how horrible some of her family truly had been.

“And I was named after her. Sometimes I feel like I’m not worthy of it. It’s not like there are a dozen other idiots with the same name - who are more foolish than the last, not like Aegon or Viserys,” Visenya mutters to herself, hardly even registering that Geralt is still keenly listening to her ramblings.

“I didn’t realize Jane was a family name,” Geralt says, his red apple still in hand, untouched. Visenya breathes out a laugh, the sound being swallowed by a strong gust of wind.

“No of course not, it’s Vise--” Visenya starts, but closes her mouth, turning to face Geralt who watches her with a curious gaze. She coughs, glancing at the trees one last time before returning her gaze to Geralt. “How do you know it wasn’t my ancestors that made the name popular?”

Geralt raises a brow, his expression showing how little he’s buying her pathetic save, but he doesn’t press the issue, thank the gods. Visenya continues biting into her apple, savoring not only each sweet bite but also the silence surrounding them.

“You’re light on your feet,” Geralt says after a moment. Visenya turns to look at him, a question on her face with raised ashen eyebrows. “Use that to your advantage. Most of your enemies will be much larger than you, bulkier. Which means they’re slower. Tire them out and run circles around them. You’ll never be able to beat them with brute force.” Geralt says, still looking towards the sky, eyes focusing on a particular bird.

“I’ll keep it in mind.”

o0o0o

“So an alp?” Visenya says, tapping her fingers against the wooden surface of the table she sits at. Her posture is relaxed, languidly sitting in the uncomfortable wooden chair. The room they’re renting is tiny, unbearably claustrophobic with the stench of stale air lingering in her nose at all hours. But it’s the only one in the small village, their size and lack of constant travelers not allowing for them to sink too much money in the rooms, opting to spend their coin on ale and food. At this point Visenya would rather stay in a brothel than here, at least they try to sell the idea of luxury and comfort - no matter how off the mark they may be.

“Hmm,” Geralt grunts, tossing his leather bag across the room. Visenya watches as it glides through the air like a cannonball before landing with a loud thump on the bed. She returns her gaze to Geralt, who moves across the room, towards her, a pitcher of ale in hand. He sets it on the table, the force of it causing small droplets of ale to splatter onto the table. The fire in the corner of the room crackles, forcing itself into their conversation like a bothersome sibling.

“Oh don’t tell me, I know this one. Let me see...alps are the ones who take humanoid forms to lure their victims and then they drink their blood until there’s nothing left, right? They also have the whole ‘saliva that puts its victims to sleep and can cause horrible nightmares’,” Visenya says, a slight smirk on her lips, eyes glowing with pride and self-satisfaction.

“You already know you’re right,” Geralt says, a lilt of amusement in his otherwise deadpan tone. Visenya smirks, grabbing a mug and pouring ale into it, careful to not spill any. She sets the jug back down, throwing her cup back and downing nearly all of it. The amber liquid is bitter, not as smooth and sweet as Cintran ale. It burns and not in a pleasant way. Her face scrunches up, lips puckering and eyes firmly shut, forcing the remaining liquid to go down her throat and not out her mouth.

“I know, doesn’t mean I don’t like receiving validation,” Visenya remarks after managing to swallow the swill disguised as ale, glancing towards the sole window in the room. The sun is starting to set, and swiftly, night time will come before either of them have a chance to blink. Visenya pushes back her chair, the wood screeching against the floors.

“Hmm,” Geralt simply replies, pouring a cup of ale for himself, and drinking it similarly as Visenya. However, he manages to keep any unpleasant expressions off his attractive face. Her eyes rest on his lips, gaze focusing on a droplet of ale that hangs precariously on his lips, nearly falling to the ground. A part of her wants to place her lips on his, to test if maybe the ale would be sweeter coming from his lips. But she snaps her eyes away quickly and banishes the thought, not wanting to linger on it for too long.

“So where are we off to,” Visenya asks. She turns away from the table, grabbing her pack and beginning to shuffle around in it. “I can’t remember where they take residence, so I can’t be help there but--” Visenya starts to ramble, but Geralt cuts her short.

“What do you mean?” Geralt asks, standing from his chair as well. Visenya turns around, her cloak in hand.

“I mean, where are we going? We are planning on killing this alp aren’t we?” Visenya asks, raising a brow at Geralt.

“I am going to kill the alp. You’re staying here,” Geralt says. His voice is stern, his mind set, leaving no room for argument. But Visenya has never been good at just sitting down and letting other people make decisions for her.

“Are you serious? You’re trying to keep me out of this?” Visenya says, disbelief lacing every word. She laughs, a mocking one that lacks any warmth or humor.

“You’re not ready for an alp,” Geralt says, maintaining his cool and unattached demeanor. Yet Visenya notices a faint twitch in his eye, annoyance with her constant need to question every choice he makes.

“Not for a nightwraith either, apparently. Yet I helped kill that too,” Visenya says, her temper flaring, fire lacing her words.

“And almost died in the process,” Geralt says, his voice rising just a hair. Visenya scoffs, rolling her eyes, staring at the ceiling for a second before returning her gaze to Geralt.

“Every situation that involves fighting also involves almost dying. That’s how fighting works, there’s always a chance you won’t come out alive,” Visenya says, crossing her arms over her chest.

“So you throw yourself into every fight, even the ones you don’t have the capabilities to win?” Geralt asks, sarcasm distorting his question.

“Precisely,” Visenya says, turning away from Geralt and throwing her traveling cloak over her shoulder, clasping it so it’ll stay on properly. She grabs her bag and sword, slinging the bag over her shoulder and attaching her sheath to her hip.

“You can throw yourself into suicide battles with someone else, you aren’t coming,” Geralt says, the volume of his voice continuing to rise.

“Yes, I am. What’s the point of me being around if I’m not being useful?” Visenya exclaims, stepping towards Geralt. She feels like a child again, being scolded for wanting to learn how to fight rather than perfecting her needlepoint or sewing skills.

“You can come on the next hunt,” Geralt says.

“That’s what you said last time, and the time before that, and the time before that!” Visenya yells, waving her arm in Geralt’s direction, emphasizing her anger and frustration.

“You weren’t ready any of those times!” Geralt counters. Visenya slams her fist against the wooden table, the impact causing the ale to nearly tip over. Pain blossoms on the spot that made contact with the table, but Visenya can’t be bothered by it at the moment.

“Damn it Geralt! Apparently, I’ll never be ready according to you,” she says, narrowing her eyes at him. The candles in the room wildly flicker, nearly going out as the temperature in the room drops, subtly at first, until it’s nearly as cold in the room as the outside. Heat rises in Visenya, growing stronger with each passing moment. The smell of burning fills the room, light smoke wafting from the table into the air.

Like suddenly falling into ice, Visenya removes her hands from the table. There’s a clear burn mark in the vague shape of her fist, the wood lightly charred. She sighs, loudly, closing her eyes and relaxing her clenched fists. The warmth in the room returns, the candles flickering with life once more. Her heart pounds, mind completely blank.

Silence.

“I need air,” she mutters after a moment, not bothering to glance at Geralt. And before he can react, she flies out of the room, slamming the door behind her.

o0o0o

Night cloaks Visenya, hiding her from any prying eyes and wandering gazes that hold no good intentions. She pulls the cloak closer to her body, hood up and head down, eager to be free from this stifling small village. The air is cool, but it’s refreshing, easily tempering the fire in her.

“Get it together, Visenya!” she whispers, smacking a hand against her forehead, hoping the sting from the pain might smack some reason into her.

A child. That’s what she’s acting like. Screaming and throwing a tantrum when she doesn’t get what she wants. It’s irrational. And pathetic. Whining and crying won’t get Geralt to agree to let her come, but that doesn’t temper the frustration she feels when he won’t. She’s not a child, she’s a woman, who can make her own decisions. Why should Visenya need a keeper to tell her what battles to and not to get involved in?

She continues marching forward, quickly leaving the village and all her anger behind. The grass is longer, instead of brushing against her ankles, it reaches the middle of her calves in certain spots. The trees are thick, their lush canopy of leaves acting like a guardian protecting her in their beauty. It’s almost like the Godswood, but not nearly as beautiful, yet it evokes similar feelings in her. She deeply inhales, releasing it a moment later, allowing her tense body to melt and fly off with the breeze. Subconsciously, her hand grazes the embroidered direwolf, lightly tracing it with the tip of her finger.

Snap.

A twig cracks, echoing in the silence. Visenya pauses, head snapping up, eyes raking the surrounding area. Nothing but towering trees with shadows acting as cloaks. She turns around, hand ghosting over her sheathed blade. Her breathing is quick and uneven, hands shaking ever so slightly. Her lip trembles and she bites down on it, unwilling to show signs of fear or weakness.

“Who’s there?” she calls out. “Reveal yourself, now!” she demands, eyes scanning the path behind her.

Silence.

She lets out a breath, watching as it appears only to dissipate into the cold air. She lowers her hand from her weapon, moving down the path she came from, eager for the warmth and light the tavern offers.

Snap.

She world around, gold eyes blazing like a fire in the thick of night. The forest seems endless, shadows dancing at the corner of Visenya’s vision, mocking her with deafening silence and blinding loneliness.

“I said, who is there.” Her voice is stone, not allowing even a glimmer of fear to seep into it. It cuts through the darkness like a freshly sharpened knife, her voice echoing far beyond what vision can perceive.

Snap.

Another twig, this time closer than the previous two. Like she’s made of air, Visenya quickly turns, but instead of stifling nothingness, a figure stands a few inches away. It’s a woman, with blood-like hair flows over her bare shoulders, the tips of it resting on its stomach. Her skin is pale, nearly grey in hue, but what’s most alarming isn’t her lack of clothing nor the murder in her eyes, but the blood splattered all over her. Some of it is dry, coating parts of her body like armor, while a few splatters appear to be fresh, still dripping off its body and splashing onto the ground.

It smiles a twisted smile that perfectly displays all her sharp teeth, tinted crimson from the blood.

An alp.

“Fuck.”

They move in unison, Visenya unsheathing her blade as the woman - or creature - lunges forward. It proves to be faster, body-slamming her to the ground. Its hands grab a hold of Visenya’s nails digging into her flesh. She screams but clamps her mouth shut, not willing to feed the lust for blood and pain in the creature’s eyes. It snarls, pushing against Visenya’s arms with inhuman strength, pressing them onto the damp ground. It hisses, droplets of drool tainted with blood falling onto Visenya’s face. She thrashes, attempting to force the beast off of her.

Her eyes feel heavy, suddenly, the desire to sleep and never wake up washing over her like a tsunami. But she fights against it.

‘If I sleep now, I’m dead. Stay. Awake,’ she keeps repeating in her head, willing the words to manifest into reality.

It hisses once more, almost mockingly. It leans down, inches away from sinking her teeth in Visenya’s throat. Visenya lifts her head, siphoning all the strength she can manage and smashes her forehead against the beast. It wails, falling back in pain, allowing Visenya to scramble out from under it. The creature continues to scream, the noise deafening. The sound causes her insides to twist and her head pound, to the point that she fears it might burst. She grabs the sides of her face with both hands, hoping to muffle the sound and make the pain stop. She closes her eyes, thoughts blurring together, as memories she only sees in her dreams fare to life in her head.

“In the name of the Warrior, I charge you to be brave. In the name of the Father, I charge you to be just. In the name of the Mother, I charge you to defend the innocent. Arise, Visenya of House Targaryen, a knight of the Seven Kingdoms.” Jaime Lannister’s face appears in her vision, a much younger version than the one she’d last seen. His gold hair is soft and thick, falling perfectly into place. He holds a wooden sword in one of his hands, resting the flat part of it on her shoulder.

Visenya giggles, the noise hazy and unclear. She stands from her kneeling position, curtseying to Jaime, stumbling forward, and nearly face planting.

“Thank you, good ser,” she replies, a beaming smile on her childish face. He kneels, so his eyes meet hers. He holds out the small wooden sword, the size suited for a child of five.

“Now go, protect your mother Queen. It is your duty as a sworn member of her Queensguard,” he says.

“Fuck!” she screams. She rapidly blinks, attempting to force the images away. There’s too much danger, too much at stake to lose focus for even a second. The creature prowls towards Visenya, grabbing onto her leg and pulling her body towards it. Like a sack of grain, her body drags in the mud towards the monster. Visenya is powerless to fight back, only able to pray that the pain in her mind and body will go away. The creature flips her body: back against the ground and face looking towards the sky. She kicks her legs, managing to miss the alp each time. Its hands continue to move up Visenya’s body as it pulls her closer.

“Where are we going, Ser Jaime? Shouldn’t you be protecting my grandfather?” Visenya asks, rushing to keep up with Jaime’s longer strides.

“I need to show you something,” he says, voice grim but not harsh, yet it lacks the mirth normally present. He stops outside a door, and in her desperation to catch up, she nearly smacks into his legs, but narrowly avoids it since Jaime stops her body. He opens the door, which creaks loudly as it swings fully open. They’re in a room Visenya is all too familiar with, her mother’s chambers.

“Why are we--” Visenya begins, but cuts herself off as Jaime moves into the room. He strides through it, eyes focusing on one wall in particular. She rushes after him, eyes alight with curiosity she needs to sate.

He stops in front of a wall, crouching down. He doesn’t turn, doesn’t acknowledge Visenya, even as her smaller feet patter against the stone floor, getting closer to him. She pauses only when she stands beside Jaime, grabbing his arm with one hand, placing her small head on his armored shoulder. A wall, there’s nothing else there but a wall; yet his eyes trace it intently, searching for something she can’t see.

“A wall?” Visenya asks brows furrowed with a small pout on her lips.

“It’s not just a wall, look.” Jaime runs his hand down the wall, pausing on one spot. He digs his fingers into it, grasping onto… something. Visenya watches with wide eyes as a portion of the wall slides open, revealing a small opening in the wall - large enough to fit a child and no more. “A crawlspace.”

“Why’d you show me this? I don’t need to hide?” Visenya asks, tilting her head to the side in confusion. She turns and looks at Jaime, her nose twitching slightly as she looks up at him.

“You will. The war isn’t going well, and if the city is attacked I need you to promise you’ll hide here?” Jaime pleads, speaking in a hushed tone, keeping the words hidden in her mother’s chamber.

“I don’t--” Visenya starts, but is cut off before she can argue further.

“Promise me,” Jaime says again, his voice more pleading and desperate. It’s a funny sight thinking back on it with adult eyes and a jaded mine: the lion begging for something, throwing aside all pride and appearances of regalness.

Visenya hesitates, watching him carefully for a moment, eyes too sharp for a child of five.

“I promise.”

Visenya slams her head against the dirt ground, trying to get the distant memories out of her head, hoping to force her body to stay awake and not succumb to sleep. Long, sharp, dirtied nails grab a hold of her shirt, pulling up her upper body. It snarls, lunging its face towards Visenya’s neck.

Searing hot pain spreads through her body. Yet it doesn’t leave her on fire, instead, it’s numbing like ice. Momentarily, the pain it’s screech caused is soothed, only to return tenfold. It’s like a million daggers are stabbing into her body, over and over again, in the dead of winter. She begins convulsing, screaming, louder than before.

“Well, if it isn’t little Visenya. Look at you, you’re not a child anymore, no, you’re fully grown, fighting Robb Stark’s little war,” Jaime Lannister says, sarcasm and mocking lacing every word. He lifts his dirt-caked face, looking up at Visenya with wide green eyes that somehow manage to still sparkle, even in all the filth that surrounds them.

“Shut up. I didn’t come here to talk to you,” Visenya says, keeping her voice as cool and calm as the winter winds. Her voice is low as to not alert any nearby guards, allowing the heavy wind to obscure most of her words.

“Really? Come to just see the spectacle then? See the state of the man who killed your grandfather and ruined your life?” Jaime spits, but he lacks any real venom. He’s like a lion, trying to make himself appear as large as possible in hopes of avoiding real conflict. Visenya ignores him, however, moving closer into his cell without fear.

“Or maybe you want to laugh?” Jaime mutters, banging his head against the post he’s chained to

Silence is his only response. Visenya moves further into his cell, holding something cold and metal in her hands that glints in the moonlight. Once she’s within arm's length from Jaime, she crouches onto the ground, purple meeting green.

“Well come one, don’t leave--” Jaime begins, but promptly shut his mouth, tightly clenching his jaw with furrowed brows.

Thud.

The metal chains fall to the ground, inches away from Jaime. His eyes follow the chains that no longer bound him, lines of confusion appearing on his forehead underneath the dirt and blood on it.

“Thank you, for my life,” Visenya mutters. Jaime moves his gaze back to her, and in her glossy eyes, he softens his armor - if only for a moment. Visenya begins to shake, like a leaf in a storm, remembering the simpler times that she ran around The Red Keep like a wild animal, and when Jaime Lannister wasn’t enemy number one to her family. Then like the wind, Visenya turns, quickly disappearing into the night.

She tries to headbutt the creature again, but she can’t move her head far enough to attempt it.

‘Fire, use fire!’ Visenya yells at herself, willing the flames that usually dance under her skin to flare to life. But nothing happens. She closes her eyes, focusing harder this time, trying to replicate the feelings swirling in her mind when she argued with Geralt. Tries to reign in the adrenaline from the Cintran Betrothal Feast or even the anger and grief she was drowning in at Blaviken.

Nothing, not even a flicker of heat.

She lets out a cry of frustration as the alp continues to drain her of blood. The world becomes dark, eyes heavier than previously. She continues to shake, trying to fight off the beast, even when her limbs feel like dead weight. Moments later, everything begins to feel light, the pain and fear slowly slipping away until she feels nothing at all. Eventually, her eyes flutter closed, the world turning black.

o0o0o

Tags: If your name is crossed out, it means I wasn’t able to tag you.

#geralt fanfic #the witcher fanfiction #geralt of rivia #the witcher #geralt of rivia fanfic #the witcher crossover #game of thrones crossover #game of thrones #Crossovers #fanfiction #the last dragon #Sami talks #sami writes #sami writes the witcher

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eccentrick-ramblings · 3 years

Text

Namesake

Based on the peasants who sometimes tell Geralt they'll name their child after him in w3. Written on a whim.

They found her surrounded by nekkers. She must've ran into a nest, as they swarmed around her, at least a dozen of them. Jaskier could hear her high pitched screams from a mile off, so it must've been doubly so for Geralt.

Once Geralt finished them off, she stood frozen and sobbing, but otherwise unscathed from her encounter. Her clothes were tattered but brightly colored, suggesting that someone loved her enough to procure dyes. They made her stand out.

With her yellow britches and bright orange tunic, Jaskier knew a kindred spirit when he saw one. Children were often frightened by Geralt, their minds filled with horrible stories about witchers, so Jaskier hustled from behind the tree he had hidden behind, and approached her slowly. Geralt stayed a few feet away, likely thinking the same thing as Jaskier.

"Are you alright, little lady?" Jaskier asked. He bowed primly, and she giggled through her tears. Good, the ice was broken.

She sniffed, no new tears joined the drying tracks along her cheeks. Jaskier bent down on his knees, intending to speak to her face to face, but she turned and glanced at Geralt.

Her face lit up and she ran to him. "Yer that mister witcher, right? White Wolf?"

Jaskier, who was left clumsily balancing on the balls of his feet, laughed awkwardly. Before Geralt could reply, he said, "It sure is! Great eye, miss. Have you by chance heard the ballads?"

"Is it true that you took down that chort in my village?"

Geralt looked down at her where she stood. She was within touching distance, an armwidth away. Children hardly got that close when they noticed his eyes and his dual swords. He didn't seem to know exactly what to do.

"The village east?" Geralt asked.

"Yup!"

Not accustomed to being ignored by anyone (besides Geralt) Jaskier stood and placed his hands on his hips. This was not going how he thought it would. Most children would be sobbing and in hysterics until returned to their village. Jaskier usually had to coax them to allow Geralt to escort them. But this child had no such fears.

Sidling up to the pair, he asked, "What's your name? I want to know what to call such a brave lady."

The little girl turned and startled like she forgot Jaskier was there. "Geraldine! My pa named me after the master witcher with white hair and yellow eyes!"

Jaskier howled with laughter. Geralt glared.

After Geraldine was safely home, Geralt on Roach and Jaskier on his own two feet, Geralt must have got tired of his barely contained curiosity, buzzing around him like a bee.

"Her father...promised to name his first born after me. I guess that happened to be a daughter."

Jaskier laughed about it all the way to the next inn, where he slept on the floor.

#geralt of rivia #jaskier #geraskier #gerlion #the witcher #the witcher 3 #dandelion #my writing #rainy writes

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xiaq · 3 years

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👀 Fic title: "Moonlight"

I mean. Obviously, there need to be wolves. So I’m thinking a Witcher fic. Except, the whole “Geralt gets turned into a white wolf” thing has been done. I think I’d subvert that trope a bit and have Jaskier, after coming down from the mountain, encounter an angry sorceress (why is she angry? does she need an excuse?). She either has beef with him or with Geralt and, despite Jaskier assuring her that he and Geralt have permanently parted ways, she curses him: to take the form of a white wolf. Only in full moonlight will he be able to regain his human form and--oh dear--it’s the full moon tonight so it looks like you’ll be stuck as a wolf for the next month before you have the ability to tell anyone you’ve been cursed, how sad.

So Jaskier is now a heartbroken wolf. He’s gangly and awkward and hungry and four legs are difficult, ok? And he can’t even sing about it (the heartache or the four-leg issue). Worst day ever. He wanders for a bit and had a very trying experience first catching and then attempting to eat a rabbit and after a week he’s pretty much submitted himself to dying of hunger when he encounters Roach. Alone. Which isn’t good. He tracks down a badly injured Geralt by the corpse of something icky shortly afterward and manages to drag Geralt's bag to him and nudge him awake enough to take some potions.

Geralt, once he gets his senses back and stumbles back to camp, is pretty confused. He knows the wolf isn’t a normal wolf, but he owes his life to it...whatever the creature is. He offers the wolf dinner and it clearly understands that invitation. So after a few days of recuperation and sharing meals, when he sets off and the wolf follows him, he...doesn’t dissuade the animal. It’s nice to have company again, actually. He doesn’t think about why that might be.

Jaskier, meanwhile, decides that he’ll stay with Geralt until the next full moon. Then he can explain the situation, and Geralt can call his BFF Yennefer and they can fix him, because Geralt owes him, okay? And then they can part ways again. Permanently, this time. It’ll be fine.

Except, Jaskier realizes, a little belatedly, that Geralt has his lute. It’s hung on Roach’s saddlebags, wrapped in some sort of tanned skin to keep it safe. Hit lute! Taking up valuable space! On Geralt’s horse! Jaskier is baffled. One, because the last time he saw his lute when the Angry Magic Lady turned him furry and he had no choice but to leave it, and the rest of his things, at his campsite near the base of the mountain. Two, because that means that Geralt must have come upon his campsite and…elected to take the lute. Which doesn’t make sense. He has questions. Which he will ask in 3 weeks when he has the ability to ask questions again.

I’m sure there are some hijinks re The White Wolf traveling with a white wolf; maybe they run into Eskel or Lambert and Geralt gets a solid ribbing for acquiring his namesake as a pet and Jaskier comes to his defense which only makes them laugh more. Except then Eskel, we’ll say it’s Eskel, asks him about his bard and he admits that they fought and by the time he got over his pride and went back to look for Jaskier, all he found was an empty campsite full of Jaskier’s things—but no Jaskier. He waited for two days before packing up the most important items like his lute and the two doublets that he knew Jaskier preferred, and now he’s on his way to find Yennefer to see if she can locate him because clearly disaster has befallen him because he wouldn’t just leave his lute.

Anyway. I’m sure you can guess what happens next because I am a sucker for the standard “usually quiet/stoic one ends up inadvertently spilling their guts about how regretful they are and the One They Have Hurt overhears their heartfelt confession/angst” trope (that’s a trope, right?). Geralt starts talking to the wolf. Telling him about Jaskier. About how he mistreated him. About how he misses him. And Jaskier all but crawls into his lap and Geralt is like, what an empathetic creature. Hm. And Jaskier is like: eye roll.

Anyway.

Either the reveal is calm and sweet: Geralt is cuddling with the wolf as the moon rises and then suddenly he’s cuddling with Jaskier who explains everything and they take full advantage of the few hours Jaskier has in human-form. Then they find Yennefer and she gets rid of the curse and they live happily ever after.

Or the reveal is Fraught With Peril: Jaskier ends up injured (by some sort of terrible beastie) just as he changes back into his human shape and they only get a few short moments to speak before he passes out. And then The White Wolf shows up to the nearest town the next morning holding an actual white wolf in his arms snarling about locating a healer who can treat the animal. And the townsfolk are completely befuddled and a little charmed to see a Big Scary Witcher (the Butcher, even!) spend the last of his coin to rent a room for a wolf and buy hearty stew for a wolf and pay a healer to come daily for a week to treat a wolf. And by the end of the week, half the town is in love with Geralt who cares so, obviously, deeply for the poor animal, and the half that isn’t in love with Geralt is in love with Jaskier because Geralt carries him to lay in front of the fire in the inn’s common room every evening and, regardless of his form, Jaskier makes friends easily.

And a bard passing through (not Valdo, thank goodness), makes a song about the bond between the White Wolf and his White Wolf that Jaskier, rather grudgingly, admits is quite good.

Eventually, he heals enough to travel and they track down Yennefer who removes the curse and Geralt uses his words like an adult to apologize propperly and they all live happily ever after. And Jaskier sometimes sings the song to Geralt because, even though it’s not one of his own, it is rather sweet.

#witcher fic #geralt/dandelion #geralt/jaskier #myfic #fic title game #rockmarina

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jaskiersvalley · 4 years

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Tumblr sucks and keeps unfollowing you, but, gods, everything you write is just *chef’s kiss*. Have very much done the dramatic hand-to-heart while reading everything you’ve written. Love the werewolf Witchers so very much, and need so much more of it. Very much enthusiastically offering, fuck me up!😊

I know this is a relatively recent ask but sometimes inspiration strikes for something and it has to be written before all else. Because I might not quite be done with the wolf au though it might not fuck you up in quite the way you were hoping for. This newest addition was all written thanks to one single idea: Lambert + the dreaded cone of shame.

Part 1 and Part 2

After the concert where the wolves revealed their human forms, there was no rest for them. They quickly found that as humans, they were hounded and it was difficult to slip away, people got between them and Jaskier. So they mostly stuck to their wolf forms which was a bit of an issue for Lambert. His injury was still giving him issues and he’d started gnawing at his injured leg when left to his own devices. No amount of telling him off could get him to stop for long.

Which was how they ended up backstage for an interview in front of a live audience. Jaskier had been invited to a chat show with his four companions. Nobody quite knew whether to call them his wolves or his bodyguards or what. There were hopes that the interview would clear things up, especially as the invitation was for the whole pack, not just Jaskier.

Before Jaskier agreed to anything, he had laid down a couple of ground rules he got assurance for. Most important was that his wolves were not pressured to change or perform for the camera. Jaskier was the showman in their pack, not them. And nobody was to mention their scars. It was already difficult enough to convince Eskel to join them without making him worry about having imperfections pointed out. After a few discussions, Eskel agreed to the interview as long as he could stay in his wolf form and slink off if things got too much. It was also good because, thanks to his injury, Lambert was still in his wolf form.

The day of the interview, they were all backstage, Jaskier fussing with their looks while Lambert whined pitifully. Nobody paid him much attention. It was time to make a grand entrance and Jaskier all but skipped into the studio, Vesemir following him on four legs while the other three tried to look less threatening in their wolf forms. Well, Eskel did, Geralt was just looking forward to sprawling on the floor and falling asleep again while Lambert hung to the back, a clear cone around his neck which had the audience cooing and expressing worry for him. With a loud, heaving sigh, Lambert threw himself down at Jaskier’s feet, whining softly in self-pity. His injury itched, he wanted to fidget with it to relieve some of his anxiety about the interview but it just wasn’t possible.

Jaskier and Vesemir sat down. Eskel hopped up onto the sofa on Jaskier’s other side and sat sideways so his scars were hidden as much as possible.

“This is quite the entrance, thank you all for gracing us with your company,” the host began.

For the most part, the interview was going smoothly. Until Geralt let out a snore and rolled onto his back, tail thumping against Jaskier’s leg as he dreamed. It drew all attention back to the wolves.

“I guess I must ask the question that everybody has been dying to ask. What are you? Shifters? Werewolves? Cursed?”

The whole audience fell silent, anticipation thick in the air. Jaskier nodded at Vesemir who took a deep breath.

“We’re witchers. Our purpose is long since gone and a sorcerer offered to help us melt into modern times. His idea of help was to give us the ability to change into the namesake of our school.”

Talk turned to witchers and their purpose. Disbelief rang through the audience as Vesemir talked about how old they were. It was all going well until Lambert raised his head, nose scrunched and teeth out. The sneeze knocked his cone into the floor with a loud clatter that had Geralt jumping up with a growl. When it was obvious that there was no danger, Geralt sat down, blinking slowly and yawning wide. However, all eyes were on Lambert who was trying to paw at his nose, obviously trying to get to an itch.

“You okay there?” The interviewer asked him and went ignored. Instead, Lambert turned and looked up at Eskel with a small whine, pushing his nose closer to him. At first it looked like Eskel was going to ignore him. But after a rather sad half howl, he hopped off the sofa, his spot was immediately stolen by Geralt who shifted into human form and stared, sleep rumpled at Jaskier who reached for him fondly.

On the floor, Lambert was still battling his itch and Eskel wasn’t much use until, with a frustrated growl, he was sat in human form and grumbling at Lambert,

“You could have done this too you know.” Despite his words, he was giving Lambert’s snout a good scratch which was obviously nice but not what Lambert needed. Pulling away with a snort, Lambert was in human form, cone still around his neck. He ripped it off with a growl.

“I fucking hate that thing.” Rubbing along the bridge of his nose, he sighed. “Fuck that feels good.”

“If you just left your arm alone, you wouldn’t have to wear it,” Eskel groused.

Satisfied that he was itch free, Lambert shifted back, as did Eskel and they settled comfortably in a pile, sides pressed together, Eskel’s head resting over the injured leg, stopping any chewing attempts with a flick of his ear.

“Well,” the interviewer laughed awkwardly, “I’m glad that’s sorted.”

The glare Eskel sent him spoke more than any words could have. It had the interviewer clearing his throat and moving the conversation on, valiantly ignoring how Geralt was falling asleep once again, comfortably sprawled on the sofa, leaning into Jaskier. At least Vesemir could behave. So could Jaskier. It didn’t help that for the next few weeks all articles about them were about the unruly pups who were more wolf than human, even when in a human body. It let to some very interesting questions about other habits and physiology which were left unanswered but caused great mirth behind closed door. It also led to Lambert plotting ways in which to cause the greatest stir without anything indecent. Just enough to keep people guessing and keep himself entertained. Nobody knew that his partner in crime behind closed doors was Vesemir, helping him come up with the best ideas.

#geraskier #geralt of rivia #jaskier #lambert #eskel #vesemir #witcher wolf pack #shifter au #tldr: lambert's in a cone of shame at an interview

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arielsojourner · 4 years

Text

Still wanting to marry this fic

So I am still obsessed with @nemainofthewater‘s Shining Universe/dragon!Jaskier universe (her fic can be found here: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22562836?view_full_work=true ). So here is another unconnected ficlet written with the author’s permission playing in her sandbox so to speak. Other ficlets on my Tumblr under the tag #dragon!jaskier.

It’s the concert of a lifetime and Jaskier intends to be there no matter what.

Countess de Stael, nearing the end of her years, is sponsoring an arts festival and competition for troubadours, minstrels, and bards from all over the Continent. It is the Countess’s last great show of her wealth and prestige, one last hurrah as a great “patron” and “lover” of the arts, (and one last attempt to drain the family coffers to avoid her heirs inheriting). Jaskier has fought too long and too hard to gain some height and some much needed years to his human form to miss out. Especially since Vardo Marx is going to be attending as a so-called judge and all the best up and coming talent will be there. He may look barely into his teens (which takes a great deal of effort and strain, since dragon puberty is still many decades away), with nary a hair on his chin or upper lip, but it is enough.

(It has to be.)

He can at least manage his lute without looking ridiculous.

“Have you thought this through?” Borch asks with amusement. The older dragon has learned that his adopted fledgling is a source of much entertainment both intentional and otherwise. This festival will prove no exception. “How will you explain your appearance?”

“Moisturizer and music. I have a young soul,” Jaskier says in all seriousness as he continues to check every item of his wardrobe. Adjustments had been made. Shed scales were sewn into what was once a doublet, now shortened and cut just at his ribcage as a jacket. He has to wear his trousers very high and tuck in his shirt tight but he will make it work. He does have a few twinges of worry that he may look too out of of step with current trends. Who even knows what the current fashion is, what colors and fabrics are in, when one lives in a cave and only rarely wears human clothes? But Jaskier will not let himself be daunted! He will wow the crowds and judges with a performance that would spread throughout the Continent.

He is sure of it!

Humans are stupid, Saskia thinks with a shake of her head.

“And you think that will be enough?”

“I also plan to wear this!” Jaskier says brandishing a mask made out of the excess fabric of his once doublet. “I will appear as the masked bard. I shall give no name. My calling card will be my flower namesake-- a buttercup --and the Countess will recognize me when I sing and Vardo will suffer and die of bitter jealousy, the hack! It’s going to be perfect! Just wait and see!”

#dragon!jaskier #witcher #jaskier #borch three jackdaws

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im-fairly-whitty · 4 years

Text

The Witcher Wolf 2: Geralt’s POV

It’s been two weeks since Geralt drove Jaskier away from him on that mountain top and Geralt’s been doing his best not to think about it by accepting every contract he comes across. But when a job goes badly he find himself cursed into the form of an injured wolf and is then saved by none other than Jaskier himself, who has no idea that the animal he’s taken under his wing is his own witcher.

Geralt must now try to alert Jaskier to his real situation and adjust to his new life traveling with the bard, learning several hard but very much needed lessons along the way.

[Read Jaskier’s POV] [Read Geralt’s POV Chapter 1/2]

Chapter 2/2

The sun was streaming through the windows of their inn room and Jaskier was still sound asleep, even as the late morning warmth made Geralt downright uncomfortable at still being indoors this late.

Staying in bed past dawn was not a luxury that frequently arose in the life of a witcher, usually only happening when Geralt was terribly injured. Not even winters spent at Kaer Morhen were enough to keep him in bed late, he was always up and moving before the cock crowed, finding himself scaling the fortress walls for chilly morning exercise or even just browsing the library to brush up on hunting knowledge.

But after a week of traveling with Jaskier as a wolf Geralt had now spent a week of mornings not leaving the inn room until the sun was well in the sky. He’d always known Jaskier was less than pleased to be roused early every morning when they traveled together, but hadn’t ever realized just how different the man’s real sleeping habits were when he was alone.

Geralt nosed at Jaskier’s hand yet again in a quiet effort to rouse him, but the bard simply rolled over, tangling himself even further in the sheets. Not even Geralt restlessly jumping onto and off of the bed several times in the last hour had shifted Jaskier, who seemed perfectly content to lay sprawled across the mattress until evening, wasting away the entire day in messy haired sleep until it was time to perform for the evening crowd again.

Geralt padded over to the window, rearing up onto his back legs to get his front paws on the window sill, looking out over the bustling morning marketplace outside. It felt like it was mocking him, a whole town of people with tasks and chores and jobs going about their days. All with responsibilities that had them out of bed and moving, with hands to actually do them with too.

And maybe that was what was really getting on Geralt’s nerves. Not the fact that Jaskier wasn’t awake yet, not even the fact that he was still cooped up indoors...

...but the fact that even if Geralt were to get out there was nothing for him to do.

If he were his normal self there’d be no problem with him leaving Jaskier to sleep in while he went off to replenish his ingredient stock in the market, check notice boards for work, or even go after a contract and return later that night covered in gore and richer in coin. There was always something for a Witcher to be doing. If there wasn’t that meant it was time for Geralt to move to the next town, Jaskier always following behind.

But now, for the first time in his unnaturally long life, there was truly nothing for Geralt to do. No contracts to take. No possessions to replenish or sharpen. Not even Roach to go out and groom.

He had nothing.

And he was starting to feel an awful lot like nothing too.

I am a witcher. His age old mantra, the stubborn phrase that had gotten him through everything, had worn thin awfully fast without anything remotely witchery left of him. But if he wasn’t a Witcher then what was he? Anything that even mattered?

Geralt shook himself with a whine that shifted to a light growl as he stalked over to the bed, grabbing Jaskier’s sleeve and tugging on it hard.

Jaskier groaned, shifting his face into the pillow. “Too early.” he muttered.

Geralt growled in earnest now, grabbing more sleeve in his teeth and pulling Jaskier off the bed with one yank. The bard fell to the floor with a yelp, startling awake with wide eyes and tousled hair.

“Well alright then, I’m up, you don’t have to yell.” Jaskier yawned, looking annoyed. “What’s wrong with you today anyway?”

Geralt looked away, maintaining his low growl.

“So grumpy.” Jaskier said, getting to his feet and stretching. “Well I suppose if I’m up already we can get something to eat and head down to the market.” He dropped back to sit on the mattress and started fumbling with a pair of pants, still blinking sleep from his eyes. “We’ve gotten plenty of coin and now that it’s obvious you’re planning on hanging around I want my belt back. Let’s get you a real collar today, what do you think about that?”

Geralt stopped his growling, letting out a low huff instead as he trotted to the door, pawing at it impatiently to signal his answer. At first wearing a collar had felt awkward and degrading, but that had been before Geralt had realized that in fact it was his ticket to safety.

As a person he relied on his armor and medallion to tell people important things for everyone’s safety: I am a Witcher. I am dangerous but reliable. I am to be left alone. As a wolf he had to send far different messages: I am tame. I am safe to be around. I belong to someone. And as foolish as it sometimes felt, Geralt wasn’t too stupid to realize the social power and protection the teal floral printed belt around his neck had given him. It was an armor all its own.

But the thought of getting one that wasn’t actually part of Jaskier’s wardrobe was still exciting him far more than it should have, probably because this was the first thing that had happened for him in a week, and he found himself nearly desperate to get going.

He huffed at himself, ears flicking back in annoyance. How far had he really fallen to be whining and prancing in place at the prospect of running an errand for himself?

Jaskier only laughed at his clear impatience, but did pick up his pace a bit. By the time the two of them found their way into the crowded marketplace Geralt felt like he was going to burst with impatience as Jaskier leisurely made his way from stall to stall, looking over the wares of different merchants. Geralt could smell the leather worker’s stall all the way at the end of the street, why didn’t Jaskier hurry up and take him there already?

“-yes, collars. Something big enough for my dog?” He heard Jaskier say.

Geralt trotted back to his side as a merchant pulled a box out from under his table.

“Well you’ve got quite a pet there friend,” the merchant said, looking Geralt over with an impressed look. “But I think I’ve got a few in here that’ll fit even him, take a look.”

Jaskier started pulling out collars and setting them on the tabletop. Several of brown leather, several that looked too short. One ridiculously ornate one that wasn’t even leather at all, but woven out of stiff colored threads in patterns of flowers.

Geralt’s ears pricked forward as Jaskier set a last one on the table. It was wide and thick, made of black leather with silver studs punched into it. It looked so much like Geralt’s old witcher armor that he started whining, nosing at it. This one, get me this one.

“Hang on Geralt, don’t chew on any of these, I don’t want to end up buying them all.” Jaskier said, pushing Geralt’s snout away.

Geralt growled, shoving past Jaskier’s hand as he pawed at the studded collar again. This. One. Get it. He could smell Jaskier’s frustration at him but he didn’t care. This was supposed to be about him.

“I expect he likes the smell of the leather.” The merchant chuckled. “He’d look right fearsome in that one though, it would suit a beast like him.”

“That’s exactly why I’m not getting that one.” Jaskier said easily, pushing Geralt away from it again and picking up the studded collar. Geralt could smell the bard’s scent sharpen. “He’s a companion, not a hunting dog, he needs to look the part he’s playing. Any bard worth their salt knows the importance of costume.”

Geralt barely heard what Jaskier said, only seeing him pick up the woven collar instead as he dropped the studded one back into the box. Geralt’s ears pinned back and he let out a frustrated growling bark, wishing he could push Jaskier aside like usual to just do it himself, or at least give him a piece of his mind.

But instead Geralt startled as Jaskier spun on him, looking him directly in the eyes with a simmering expression he’d never ever directed at Geralt before. His sharp scent, that was anger coming off of the bard.

“Stop.” Jaskier commanded, his voice laced with enough angry finality that Geralt actually felt his tail tuck a bit between his legs.

The bard’s voice wasn’t heated, in fact it was icy cold. His scent went from sharp to something a step more painful. It was so intense that it almost felt like Jaskier was really seeing him, but he’d never talked to Geralt like this when he was a person.

“New rule.” Jaskier said, his voice chillingly even, not breaking eye contact for a moment. “Unless you’re in pain or I’m in danger there’s going to be absolutely no growling at me. I’ve gotten a lifetime's worth of that from your namesake thank you very much, and I refuse to take any more of it.”

Geralt was silent, he would have been speechless even if he’d been capable of speaking.

He’d seen Jaskier pick fights with insult tossing peasants before, had seen him charge into a brawl with nothing but a glass bottle to defend himself, had even seen him square up with generals and sorceresses and monsters far more powerful than him over the years when the situation called for it.

But he’d never seen this side of Jaskier. Because the scent of anger coming off the bard was no match for the scent of emotional pain that overpowered it.

...I was stupid enough to hang around him for years...

...he bit far more than you do my friend. With words I mean...

...I mean he was always insulting me…

And with that Jaskier turned back to the merchant, leaning against the table with an easy smile as he began haggling over the price of the woven collar. Geralt sat silently at his feet, his mind replaying what Jaskier had told his wolf self in confidence over the past week about his witcher self.

Being around Jaskier as a wolf had of course already revealed to Geralt just how out of line he’d been when he’d chased the bard off three weeks ago, but had Jaskier really hated his normal day-to-day growling that much all these years? Geralt knew he wasn’t the easiest person to be around by a long shot, but Jaskier had never seemed to mind. He’d always just smiled and shook his head whenever Geralt had resorted to sharp single word answers and angry grunting instead of longer wordy phrases.

Geralt wasn’t always like that. Especially around Jaskier, who was the only person who regularly cajoled him into real full length conversations as they traveled the continent together. But even when he was more talkative Geralt had never shied away from loosing the brunt of his frustrations or bad moods on Jaskier. Just like he had with his poor mood today. Just like...

...if life could give me one blessing it would be to take you off my hands...

Ah.

Geralt hated feeling guilt, but this felt far worse than anything he’d felt in years. Because Jaskier had minded how flippantly Geralt had treated him sometimes, minded terribly in fact, but had hid it from him. Or perhaps Geralt had never wanted to notice, had always had the luxury of pushing past Jaskier and onto his own plans like he’d tried with the collars.

But now Geralt could only sit and wait as the bard handled things for him, left to silently review every growl, every snapped reply, every unfair accusation his brain could dredge up from the last twenty two years that had been aimed at Jaskier.

Above him Jaskier was of course as patient and sunny as ever as he settled on a price with the merchant, even as the scent of pain still ebbed from him. The same scent he’d gotten the times he’d confided to Geralt without realizing who he was really talking to.

Geralt knew by now just how badly he’d hurt Jaskier by not reciprocating his affection and by verbally attacking him on the mountain, but it was a new kind of pain to realize that the bard might have been hurting their entire friendship.

There was a shaking of hands and an exchanging of coin above and then the merchant took the box, heading to the back of his stall. Jaskier turned to Geralt with a smile, getting down on one knee as he unlatched the old belt collar and slipped on the new one.

“Here we are.” Jaskier said, adjusting the new collar—which did feel like a much more comfortable fit than the belt had—around Geralt’s neck. “You do look handsome, any lord would be glad to have you curled up in front of their fireplace by their side, you magnificent thing.”

Geralt looked at the ground, not wanting to meet Jaskier’s eyes. Jaskier’s smile dropped, replaced with a concerned look.

“I'm sorry I snapped at you.” He said quietly, petting his head. “You have been difficult today but you didn’t deserve that. You’re not the one I’m really upset at, I’ll make it up to you with a treat when we get back to the inn, alright?”

Except Geralt was the one who deserved it. But continuing to sulk would only worry Jaskier more, so instead he wagged his tail, pushing his head up against Jaskier’s chest in what little apology he could manage in this state. If he ever regained the ability to speak that’s what he would say first, a real apology for everything.

“There’s a good boy.” Jaskier chuckled, scruffing his hands through the thick fur of Geralt’s neck. “A good handsome boy. You’re going to be quite the heart stealer with that new collar of yours, you just wait.”

Geralt leaned up against Jaskier as he stood, doing his best to be as non growly as possible as they went on their way through the marketplace.

It was going to take a bit of extra effort to not resort to growling and snapping and snarling, but Geralt was already determined to keep Jaskier’s new rule. After all, it’s not as if he had any other challenges to keep him busy. And besides, making sure Jaskier felt only appreciated was long overdue.

***

Geralt had been a wolf for an entire month now and he’d learned many things about Jaskier, but he’d also learned things about life. Some admittedly more useful than others.

He’d learned that all animals from chickens to cattle had a subtle language all their own that people just didn’t catch, a language he still didn’t understand fully but that he was getting better at everyday. He’d learned that most humans could be charmed by a wagging tail and a pretty collar faster than even Jaskier could manage. He’d even learned that there was a certain delectable smell that could only be gotten from rolling in garbage, but he was fairly sure that the virtue of that particular realization was heavily dependent on him being a wolf.

But perhaps the most important thing he’d learned was that humans didn’t watch what they said at all when they thought there were only animals around to hear them.

“Talented bard they’ve got tonight.”

Geralt’s ear flicked toward the three men who were leaning against the outside of the tavern as he snuffled through the long grass, tracking a mouse he’d smelled in the evening air. Over the weeks Jaskier had become far more relaxed with how close he kept Geralt, meaning that Geralt was allowed to wander as he pleased as long as he kept out of trouble. It was a small freedom that had made life far more enjoyable, not the least of which being because Geralt could eavesdrop on unwitting humans even more easily than he had as a witcher.

“He’s got a pretty enough voice,” said one of the other men. Geralt could tell the three men were watching him but continued his snuffling. “Been making quite a name for himself with that white wolf, just look at him. Tame as anything and as eye catching as they come. Saw some kids playing with him earlier, no wonder he’s getting his master a reputation.”

“I bet the bard’s purse is even prettier than his face.” The third man mused. “He sure dresses well enough. Bet that dog would fetch a pretty price too if he could be convinced to part with him.”

Geralt’s eyes narrowed as the men all chuckled, an ugly sound.

“I heard he’s staying at the Golden Swallow.” The second man said. “Wouldn’t take much to pay him a visit late tonight, have a chat and see if he’s willing to part ways with some of his finer things. I reckon the three of us would have pretty good chances against one bard, don’t you think?”

Geralt kept himself as outwardly calm as possible, even as a sticky hot protectiveness trickled down his spine.

“What about the wolf?” the first man asked. “I don’t fancy a tussle with something that big if it gets upset.”

“It’s not a wolf, it’s an overgrown lapdog.” the second scoffed, unfolding his arms. “He’s tame as anything, probably wouldn’t even notice it’s changed masters. Look, I’ll show you. Hey, here boy!”

Geralt let himself look up as the man called to him, snapping his fingers and smiling.

If Geralt were still a witcher he would have made short work of these men, bluntly confronting them with enough blade to get them to abandon their plans at best, making sure they’d never harm anyone again at worst. Although he doubted they would have let themselves speak so carelessly around a witcher in the first place.

As a wolf though...as a wolf Geralt found himself wanting to try seeing what would happen if he handled this entirely differently. Because they were not going to lay a single finger on his Jaskier, that much he knew.

“Pspsps, here boy, come here you big brute.” The man said, calling to him in a high pitched sing-song voice.

Geralt pricked his ears and bounded forward toward the men, panting in a charade of canine happiness. The man laughed as he bent down to pet him.

“See? Tame as anything. He’s just a big stupid beast, aren’t you?” he crooned, scratching behind Geralt’s ears.

Geralt made a show of enjoying the affection as the other men petted him as well, but this close to the men he could now see for certain that none of them were carrying weapons. Their mistake.

“Why don’t I take him home now and we take care of the bard later?” The first man suggested, his dirty fingers curling around Geralt’s collar. “That way we don’t have to worry about dragging him out of the inn and barking while we slit his master’s throat.”

It took every ounce of Geralt’s willpower not to snarl, but he kept it back, well practiced after a month of quietly tempering his fouler moods.

“Not a bad idea.” The third man nodded. “That way we can even have some fun with the bard too. He’s real pleasant to look at, would be a shame to waste it so fast.”

The men all laughed. The fingers on Geralt’s collar loosened.

Perfect.

Geralt silently lunged up at the first man, jaws snapping shut on the bandit’s throat and ripping before he even had time to finish his laugh, instead collapsing to the dirt with a hollow moan and glassy eyes as blood pooled around him.

Without missing a beat Geralt lept at the third man, feeling his adrenaline pounding as he knocked the bandit to the ground. The man’s eyes widening in horror as he tried to cover his face in still dawning shock. Geralt had never fought anything larger than rabbits as a wolf, but the sticky hot iron taste of the blood in his mouth was the same and his witcher killing instincts certainly hadn’t gone anywhere.

It was messy and hot and fast, but before the second man—the ringleader—had time to even properly stumble back his second fallen comrade was twitching in the dirt with a gurgling shriek.

“What, what-” the ringleader stuttered, looking at his two dead friends in shock. Men who had been standing and laughing and plotting an innocent man’s death only moments before.

Geralt looked up at the man, panting happily again knowing what a chilling sight it made him as blood dripped from his open mouth.

“Y-you, you heard us, didn’t you?” The bandit said hollowly, Geralt could hear his racing heart and the cloying scent of fear flowing off him.

Geralt knew by now that he couldn’t properly nod his head, but he dipped his head up and down in his best imitation as he smiled his canine grin, eyes squinted with grim satisfaction to see the bandit’s face pale even further.

“You’re no wolf.” The bandit gasped, stumbling back desperately, eyes wide as his hands scrabbled in the weeds for anything he could use as a weapon. “You’re cursed. What are you?”

Geralt huffed at the irony. Maybe it would be worth letting the villain live just on the off chance he’d let Jaskier in on the secret.

“We were just joking.” The bandit said hurriedly. “We weren’t really going to do anything to your master, we weren’t really going to kill him, honest! Leave me be, I’ll do him no harm, I swear it!”

Even if Geralt hadn’t smell the bald-faced lie on the bandit his sharp eyes spotted the man’s hand close around a discarded bar of iron in the weeds. The man’s face twisted in a snarl of his own as he swung the metal at Geralt’s head.

It was over almost before it began, Geralt lunged and the metal clattering out of the bandit’s limp fingers as he collapsed under the wolf’s attack. Geralt panted heavily as he stood in the alleyway, now alone with three bodies that would never kill anyone again. More importantly, who would never kill Jaskier.

Geralt whined, trying to scent the air for Jaskier but not smelling much over the cloying iron scent of the blood covering his snout. A cold feeling swept through him as he realized he wasn’t out of danger yet. As a Witcher he could get away with slaughtering murderous bandits, but if the townspeople found three men dead of dog bites and spotted a wolf covered in gore he knew there was only one way for that particular story to end.

Geralt latched onto the ringleader’s collar, yanking at it to drag the body down the alley toward the canal that ran through the town. It took some doing but after a minute or two the corpse was tumbled into the murky water, quickly joined by the bandit’s two other friends.

Geralt huffed as he trotted to a nearby horse trough, doing his best to rinse the worst of the blood from his face and paws but having no way of seeing how successful he was. He shook himself to get the excess water off, spooking a rabbit from the weeds. His ears pricked up as an idea occurred to him and he took off after it.

***

“Geralt, look at you, you mighty hunter. Finally returning from your evening of fun I see.” Jaskier said, shaking his head in amusement as he let Geralt into their inn room. “But really, did you catch that rabbit in a lake? You’re a damp mess. I swear you’ve been getting enough to eat, but perhaps not if you’re still hunting?”

Geralt wagged his tail as he dropped the rabbit at his feet, just happy to see his bard safe and sound, a now familiar warm loving feeling rushing through him.

He wished he could tell Jaskier what had happened. He wished he could tell him how he’d felt, angry and protective. He wished he could pull Jaskier into a hug just to reassure himself that no one else was going to touch him.

But he couldn’t. He hadn’t before and he couldn’t now that he felt like he was bursting with words and emotions that he couldn’t express them even if he wanted to.

Probably because he had no choice.

And he did very much want to.

“Well we’ll make sure to get you more to eat if you need it.” Jaskier said with a smile, fetching a towel and kneeling to rub Geralt down with it, paying special attention to cleaning his face. “You’ll get us kicked out of inns if you make a habit of showing up late and wet with rabbit blood on your snout you know.”

Geralt shook his newly dried fur, pushing his face against Jaskier, making the bard laugh and hug his neck.

“I love you too, you ridiculous thing.” Jaskier said warmly, kissing his head.

Geralt whined, several emotions fighting uselessly in him. Useless since he had no way to show them.

“Well I’m back to sleep if you care to join me.” Jaskier said with a yawn, setting aside the towel and collapsing back onto the mattress, having apparently already been asleep when Geralt had come scratching at the door.

Geralt lept up onto the bed without hesitation, curling up against Jaskier and resting his head on the bard’s chest.

“Good boy.” Jaskier said, eyes already closed as he ran his fingers through Geralt’s fur, drifting off to sleep almost immediately.

Geralt watched him sleep, thinking of all the things he would say if he could. All the things that he likely had permanently missed out on ever saying.

Because Jaskier was never going to figure out Geralt’s curse on his own, that much had become clear over the last month. The only thing Geralt had been able to think of was if Yennifer somehow came across the bard, surely she’d at least recognize Geralt as cursed if not recognizing him as Geralt.

But he knew too much about curses to be naive enough to suppose that even Yennifer would be able to break it even if she knew about it. Curses were tricky, stubborn things. Their cures were always cryptic hidden clues tied to their beginnings, if they even had a cure at all.

With Geralt unable to even tell Yen who had cursed him or how she wouldn’t even have a place to start, leaving him a wolf forever.

Geralt whined softly, shifting closer to Jaskier as his gaze flicked up, toward the locked door that no bandits would be coming through tonight.

Well at least he was spending his new life the best way he could imagine, at Jaskier’s side, protecting him even if he didn’t know it. Even if Geralt wished it were different, there was no place he’d rather be.

***

“Geralt, if you don’t bring the stick back to me I can’t throw it for you.”

Geralt bounded right past Jaskier, happily carrying his stick in his mouth as he dashed back and forth across the dirt road the two of them were traveling down. The warm afternoon sun warmed the fur on his back as he pranced through weeds, investigating intriguing smells as he came across them.

Geralt had no idea where they were going that day, and he had no idea when they were going to get there, and that was perfectly fine. Because he and Jaskier were together and that was more than enough. Although his new stick certainly helped.

He bounded back to the bard, letting him wrestle the stick from his mouth after a few playful tugs, and then took off after it again when Jaskier threw it for him.

Two months ago Geralt would never have believed that his life could be so simple, and he never would have believed that the uncomplicated joy of traveling with his best friend could have satisfied him so easily. And yet, here they were. Long mornings spent curled up next to Jaskier in bed, effortless afternoons traveling or strolling markets, joyful evenings sitting at the bard’s side while he performed, and then nights of listening attentively to whatever crossed Jaskier’s mind as the two of them lounged in front of a fire.

Geralt of course missed plenty of things about being a witcher, for one his list of things he wished he could tell Jaskier was always growing, but as time had gone on he’d decided that perhaps this fate wasn’t entirely terrible after all.

Geralt’s ears pricked up as the sound and scent of horses approaching, a lot of them. He emerged from the tall grasses at the side of the road to see a horse merchant’s caravan passing them on the road. His eyes widened as a particular smell reached him from the group, a painfully familiar one coming from a glossy chestnut mare with a stripe down her face.

Geralt let out a bark of surprise and the mare looked up, her ears twitching toward him. When she saw him she let out a sharp whinny of recognition that jolted him into action. His stick dropped to the ground forgotten as he rushed up to Roach, yelping and whining in excitement.

It was Roach.

The roadside exploded into chaos around him, spooked horses yanking at their leads and trying to skitter away from him, the horse merchant shouting, Jaskier yelling at him too as his hand grabbed his collar. But Geralt was single minded in his focus as he hauled Jaskier forward toward Roach, whining desperately as his horse put up a fit of her own trying to tug away from her lead toward him.

Then suddenly Jaskier’s grip faltered. “...Roach?” he said, voice sounding dry.

Geralt looked up at Jaskier, whining and barking. It’s her, it’s my horse, do something please!

“Where did you get that horse?” Jaskier demanded of the horse merchant, letting go of Geralt’s collar.

Geralt dashed up to Roach with the bard close behind, filled with gratitude that Jaskier had caught on so quickly. Geralt danced around Roach’s feet, yelping in canine excitement as the horse dipped her head to nose at him affectionately. She’d seen him turned into a wolf, of course she knew it was him.

In the excitement Geralt missed most of what the humans were doing but it sounded like Jaskier was in a full shouting match with the horse merchant.

“-she’s coming with me now as well as anything else you stole from back where you found her.” Jaskier said angrily. “And believe me, I’ll know if you try to keep any of it back.”

Geralt whined in gratitude, pressing against Jaskier’s legs as he untied Roach from the caravan. The bard had no reason to be doing this, not after thinking his last interaction with Geralt had been that disaster back on the mountain. Jaskier had every right to look the other way and wish Geralt’s apparent disappearance good riddance, but instead he was going out of his way to get his horse and things back for him. Geralt didn’t deserve this kindness at all.

Two of the horse merchant’s boys dumped armloads of all too familiar things at their feet and Geralt nearly stumbled as the scent of his own witcher belongings rushed over him. The dusty leather scent of his armor, still spattered in grime. The sharp varied smells of his alchemy bag. And of course the constant smell of steel and silver as Jaskier pulled his two swords out of the pile of things.

It felt almost as if Geralt were waking from a dream, memories of a past life weaving their way back to him. He felt an aching longing for it, wishing desperately for his old body again, wishing to be a witcher again so he could take up all his things and his life.

“These were all at the camp?” Jaskier asked sharply, looking through the pile as if he were taking stock of every item. Geralt could smell anger and distress flowing off the bard.

“They were, strewn about in a right mess too.” The merchant said, looking eager to get all this over with and gone.

“The medallion.” Jaskier demanded horsley, looking up from a saddlebag. “Where’s the silver wolf medallion?”

Geralt whined softly as he realized what why Jaskier smelled so distraught. Geralt would never have voluntarily left all his belongings and Roach behind, Jaskier must think that his witcher was dead.

One of the boys handed over Geralt’s old silver medallion to Jaskier, who took it stiffly, his scent spiking from anger to shock and grief. Geralt had never ever smelled Jaskier this sad before and it twisted at his gut, the now familiar feeling of guilt eating at him. Because of course this was all his fault and he couldn’t stand Jaskier being hurt by him again, especially when it was all a terrible misunderstanding.

Geralt nosed at the medallion in Jaskier’s hand, whining. I’m not dead! I’m still here with you, don’t be sad!

Jaskier silently handed the merchant some coin and the caravan left as quickly as it came, leaving the bard the wolf and the horse alone on the dusty road with all of Geralt's earthly possessions piled in front of them. It felt like some kind of surreal dream Geralt couldn’t manage to wake up from, a dream that turned toward a nightmare as Jaskier collapsed to his knees, breaking into rough sobs as tears ran freely down his face.

No no no. Geralt pressed against Jaskier as close as he could get. Don’t cry! None of this is your fault! I’m not dead! If only he could talk, all of this could be solved in an instant. Jaskier hugged Geralt tightly, burying his face in his fur as he continued to sob. Geralt settled heavily across the bard’s lap, being as present and comforting as he knew how. He idly wondered how he might have dealt with a crying bard before all this. Would he have stood awkwardly by? Would he have tried to comfort him at all or been too concerned with his own discomfort at such a strong display of emotions?

It took a long time for Jaskier’s tears to ease a bit.

“He’s, he’s gone.” Jaskier hiccuped, opening his hand to look at the medallion in his hand. “I mean...I k-know I already lost him...b-but not like this.”

Geralt whined quietly, pressing his head against Jaskier’s shoulder bracingly. You haven’t lost me. I’m not gone, I wish I could make you understand.

“Why did that have to be the last time I saw him...” Jaskier said quietly, burying his face in Geralt’s fur. “Why did it have to end like that? I really believed I would see him again. What am I going to do now?” He looked up as Roach nudged his shoulder, the horse clearly confused by Jaskier’s grief.

“Oh Roach, I’m so sorry. You probably saw it actually happen, you poor thing.” Jaskier said, getting to his feet and rubbing her cheek, easing off the rough rope bridle from the merchant. “I know he didn’t like me much by the end, but I hope it’s alright if you stick with me. I promise I’ll keep you brushed and well fed, no monster hunting, but I’ll take good care of you.”

Geralt was nearly whining in frustration at not being able to talk, unable to pull Jaskier into a reassuring hug, unable to thank him for everything he was doing. All he could do was stay right by the man’s side as he set about slowly saddling Roach and packing up all of Geralt’s witcher things with practiced care, sadness still dripping off him. Sadness Geralt desperately needed to wipe away.

Jaskier finished packing up Roach and stood back, pulling Geralt’s old medallion out of his pocket and staring at it. Geralt looked up attentively as Jaskier got down on one knee in front of him.

“I need you to hold onto this for me alright?” Jaskier said quietly. “Keep it safe while we travel.”

Geralt sat very still in agreement, nearly reverent as the bard gave him back his own medallion.

But the instant the metal chain passed over his nose Geralt could feel something changing, a quivering electric rush that crept over him as the chain passed over his head. He distantly felt the weight of the medallion hit his chest as a flash of light sent him stumbling to his feet, but an instant later his vision cleared, leaving him staring at his his own two very human hands.

Geralt’s eyes widened in surprised shock as he looked himself over, his complete witcher self back to normal. The medallion had broken the curse!

Barely an instant had passed and Geralt’s witcher reflexes alerted him to Jaskier’s cry of alarm, still stumbling back from the flash of light that had evidently blinded him. Geralt caught the bard before he fell back, pulling him into a tight hug that had two months’ worth of gratitude and relief and love piled into it.

“Unhand me!” Jaskier yelped in surprise, still blinking to get his sight back as he struggled in Geralt’s grip. “Let me-”

“I’m sorry Jaskier.” Geralt said quietly in Jaskier’s ear, his voice feeling rusty after not using it for so many weeks, but still full of emotion at finally, finally being able to apologize.

Jaskier looked up at him, eyes widening in stunned recognition as he finally saw who was holding him.

“G-Geralt?”

***

“You really didn’t mind the collar? I should have picked that black leather one you wanted, that’s why you were so huffy about it, I’m sorry I didn’t-”

“I’m glad you didn’t.” Geralt said, setting another log on the campfire.

He stood, walking barefoot to where Jaskier was sitting perched on his bedroll. Geralt was wearing his loosest shirt and pants, unable to bear wearing socks and shoes yet after only a few hours as a person again. But at least he’d managed to pitch camp like usual with only minimal fumbling. Jaskier was still watching Geralt with a look of fond disbelief that hadn’t left him since that afternoon, as if he were still convinced he were about to wake from a dream.

Geralt sat on the bedroll, gently pulling the bard into his lap. Jaskier smiled, reaching up to hold Geralt’s face as if he were trying to memorize him.

“I didn’t need a collar that looked like my old armor,” Geralt said, wrapping his arms around Jaskier’s waist. “I needed the flower one, you were right to choose it. You don’t have to keep apologizing for anything, you did everything exactly right. It’s like what you said about actors having the right costume.”

“You’re going to have to be patient with me,” Jaskier chuckled, shaking his head. “It’s going to take me at least a few days to adjust to the reality of a Geralt who remembers things I’ve said weeks ago. All of this is quite a shock.”

“You’ve never been anything but patient with me.” Geralt said, taking one of Jaskier’s hands and kissing his palm. “I owe you all the patience you want a hundred times over.”

“See? This is exactly what I mean, you’re using words Geralt, about your feelings no less.” Jaskier teased with a smile, playing with the chain of Geralt’s medallion. “If I hadn’t seen you sharpening your silver sword just now I’d think I had a good natured doppler on my hands. Say, a doppler could change into a wolf couldn’t it? That would certainly make all of this make more sense. I don’t think I’ve heard of a mage turning people into wolves before, he must have been an odd bird.”

“I don’t think he was a mage.” Geralt said, watching Jaskier idly turn the medallion over in his hands as the bard rested his head against his chest. Curling up against him as a wolf had been good, but this was so much better. “I’d bet good coin there was something fae in his blood, whatever he was. They’re the kind to be as unhinged and, well, creative as he was.”

“There was so much compliment in that insult I can hardly decide whether or not to be offended.”

Geralt was on his feet in an adrenaline jolting instant, pushing Jaskier behind him and grabbing his freshly sharpened silver sword from where it lay nearby.

On the other side of their camp stood the teal and orange clad man Geralt had gone up against months ago, watching them idly, as if slightly bored.

“What do you want?” Geralt asked, voice as level as his sword. He already knew that riling the man could result in an attack he wouldn’t be able to parry, but with Jaskier at risk he couldn’t quite bring himself to lower his sword as he cast a simple protective Quen shield around the two of them. “We’ve done you no harm, leave us in peace.”

“Oh do calm yourself.” The man drawled. “I felt my curse end and I came to see whether you’d finally died in a ditch somewhere. Wolf teeth make fine ingredients you know, waste not want not and all that.”

“Geralt, he’s the one who turned you into a wolf?” Jaskier asked, pushing past him.

“Jaskier, don’t-”

“What kind of sick bastard are you anyway?” Jaskier snapped at the sorcerer, folding his arms. “Turning people to wolves, talking of harvesting their teeth for gods’ sakes. Walking around in such a disaster of an outfit as that too. I’ve half a mind to break my lute over your head, haven’t you got anything better to do than turn people into animals against their will?”

Geralt braced himself for the attack or curse that was sure to follow, but instead hesitated as the sorcerer only laughed.

“You’ve got spirit.” The man said with an easy grin. “Have you any interest in joining my collection?”

“I should think not, whatever the hell that’s supposed to mean.” Jaskier said hotly. “Now leave us be, we solved your stupid curse by finding the medallion so the show’s over. Go back to whatever hole you crawled out of.”

“Jaskier...” Geralt warned quietly, on edge at how many insults were being flung at the very powerful magic user. But neither of them paid him any attention.

“Medallion?” The man asked, raising an eyebrow.

“Geralt’s witcher medallion.” Jaskier said impatiently, motioning to the medallion in question. “The key to lifting your curse? We put it back on him and he became a person again?”

“Oh, it wasn’t the medallion that did it. Not really.” The man said dismissively. “Although that would have been a much more interesting key had I thought of it at the time.”

“How do you mean?” Jaskier asked, looking as surprised as Geralt felt.

“I’m afraid my curse was far more basic than that.” The sorcerer said, looking them over, his bored expression back. “It was broken by your fool of a witcher caring for someone who cared for him back as much as I cared for my poor Truskawka, may she rest in peace. I’d assumed such a violent brute would never find a cure like that.”

“Shows what you know.” Jaskier said, really starting to scare Geralt with how cocky the bard sounded. Or at least Geralt might have felt frightened if it weren’t so endearing.

“Well if you’re going to be so stubborn about it then fine, we’ll say the medallion was the cure all along and that it was my idea from the start.” the sorcerer said, nodding his head. “Still, do be careful where you take it off and on though, or I’ll get those wolf teeth yet.”

And with no further ceremony the man winked out of sight. There one moment and then gone the next. Vanished as quickly as he’d come.

“Hang on!” Jaskier spluttered. “Come back! What’s that meant to mean? Get back here and explain yourself!”

“Jaskier if you keep shouting at him you’re going to end up cursed into a lark or some nonsense.” Geralt said, lowering his sword and pulling Jaskier back.

“You heard what he said!” Jaskier said hotly, looking up at him. To Geralt’s dismay there were the beginnings of tears in the bard’s eyes. “You’re not really uncursed after all! What if he did that just because I brought the idea to his mind? What if it’s my fault that-”

Geralt silenced him with a kiss, gently taking hold of Jaskier’s arm until he settled.

“I don’t think that was something new he added just now,” Geralt said gently, still marveling at being able to use words to comfort Jaskier. “I expect it was already there without us knowing and he just has a flare for drama. Like you.”

“Don’t compare me with that thing!” Jaskier huffed. “If you’re still cursed then-”

“It’s not much of a curse when I’m with you.” Geralt said.

“You’re telling me you didn’t mind being a wolf?” Jaskier said skeptically.

“I’m telling you that we already know how to fix it.” Geralt said, holding his medallion and looking at the innocently glinting sliver surface. “I never take it off anyway, it won’t make much of a difference to me if I’ll be a wolf again without it.”

“You really didn’t mind it that much?” Jaskier asked, his mouth quirking into a smile. “Because you were with me?”

“I’ve never been able to enjoy life as simply as I did when I was only your wolf, it might be nice to revisit sometimes.” Geralt said. “As long as you were willing to look out for me again and keep the medallion safe for me I don’t think I’d mind at all.”

“As long as you do realize I’m not going to give you a bit of slack for misbehaving as a wolf now that I know it’s really you.” Jaskier teased. His eyes widened. “Hang on, you chewed apart one of my favorite boots last month! Geralt, that was expensive leather! Was there a dangerous snake inside it or something?”

“Ah…yes. Definitely. Had to protect you from the, uh, the snake.” Geralt lied, keeping his face as unguilty as possible, remembering how bored he’d been after two days without much exercise and Jaskier’s boots lying beside him on the floor. “I promise I’ll buy you a new pair as soon as I’ve taken a few contracts.”

“Well, I suppose that’s alright then, as long as you don’t do it again.” Jaskier said. He looked at the medallion at Geralt’s chest, eying it a bit warily. “So…do you want to test it?”

“No, not tonight. I’m still adjusting to having two legs again.” Geralt said with a yawn. He pulled Jaskier into a hug, nuzzling at his neck. “And besides, I like being the one to hold you for a change.”

“Well, I certainly won’t argue with that.” Jaskier said, kissing Geralt’s forehead. “I’m still going to write that song though, although I might have to be a bit more careful with the details now that I know the story isn’t ended yet.”

“I’d say it’s only just begun.” Geralt said, smiling at Jaskier’s delighted yelp as he swept the bard up into his arms to carry him back to their campfire.

----------

I don't have anything else specifically in mind for the witcher wolf series, but if you have an idea you're itching to see realized or discussed (during the time Geralt is cursed or even after they figure out the medallion's trick) feel free to drop me an ask I just might take the bait.

Thank you so much for reading! <3

- Wit

#the witcher #geralt #jaskier #geraskier #wit writes #it is finished #yee haw

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afterhoursfic · 4 years

Note

What about Geralt slowly using axii to make Jaskier crave wolf dick. Starts with small suggestions until Jaskier is so desperate for it and so ashamed but god, he want it so badly. Trying to hide it from Geralt because he knows it's wrong but he's just so hard from the thought of it. And Geralt just keeps using axii until one time when he pretends to go on a hunt but he's set it up so a wolf is near and with that little push he gets Jaskier to slowly go all the way and Geralt secretly watches

Warning: beastiality, mind control, dub con, non con

This prompt only came in today but I loved it so much I just had to write it, thank you anon!

I’ll probably work on the other prompts several at a time so I can post a few together later in the week, but you’re still welcome to send them in.

He doesn’t know how the thought first came about to get Jaskier addicted to wolf cock. It could be Jaskier’s never-ending questions about his own anatomy and whether he shared certain traits from his school’s namesake, something he doesn’t answer but still doesn’t stop the bard from trying to figure out. Or maybe it’s just the fact that he wants to see Jaskier degraded and begging with a wolf cock stuffing him full so he’s screaming, regardless he hasn’t decided which one it is.

At first, he tried to temper those thoughts, let them be nothing but fantasies he could jerk himself off to in the dead of night, but that changed one day when they were traveling through the woods and came across a small pack of wolves.

They both heard them before they actually found them and it was all Geralt could do to keep up his composure when Jaskier asked him if he could axii them, just for a bit whilst he got close to examine the beasts, and he barely had the mind to do so before Jaskier was walking a little too excitedly towards the pack for ‘research’.

He watched the bard stroke at them and barely muffled a moan after he made one wolf begin to nose at Jaskier’s crotch, which was pushed away playfully before moving to the next wolf. After having worked around the pack, lingering especially at a grey wolf that was so pale in color that it may as well have been white, and wasn’t that a thought, Jaskier getting fucked by a white wolf, his moniker, before the bard let out a hum and deemed them ‘big dogs’ as he moved to let Geralt finish his work of dispatching them.

He somewhat regretted not getting the animals to simply take the bard then and there, it would have been all too easy for the pack to get him to the ground and tear off his clothes, but he knew Jaskier would have fought, would have called for his help and would likely leave with several choice words if he had just stood there with his dick out through the whole thing, no he had to be smarter than that.

It started off small, first, he used axii to make Jaskier a little more curious about wolves, about their pack structures, maintaining territory, just small things that eventually culminated with the bard pulling out some wolf related book to read every night, sometimes a bestiary, others just a storybook, but all revolved around wolves, and if Jaskier was curious as to why he had garnered such an interest in the beasts, he never voiced it.

Slowly it grew from there, moving more into how wolves mated, how they fought for the best bitch before knotting her, and filling her with pups. What started off as idle curiosity he gradually filtered in arousal, enjoying the way he could smell a spike in arousal from the bard whenever he got to a particular part in his book he could only guess involved mating, or whenever they heard a wolf’s howl during the night.

He starts pushing the boundaries a bit more then, purposefully seeks out wolf packs to skirt near, just so they could hear them growling and often howl to one another, whilst beside him he could not only smell the arousal pouring off of Jaskier, but could also see his flushed cheeks, the way he bit his bottom lip as if to keep in a moan and, most notably, the tent he was sporting in the front of his breeches which he would usually try to cover with his lute as Jaskier’s eyes would skirt between where he sat on Roach and whatever direction the nearest wolf howl had come from.

At those moments it was hard to keep himself in check, the bard already looked debauched and as if he would leave the path at any minute in search of the wolf, which meant that he always found his dick straining beneath his leathers.

Oftentimes he would slow Roach’s pace to an amble and draw out how close they were to the pack, sometimes he even walked them close enough to see the animals and he would often stray a hand to rub at his cock whilst he saw Jaskier try to secretly get himself off by either rubbing against his lute case or from a loose hand he would try to play off as scratching at his hip or stomach.

One time he had them venture close enough to a pack so that he could axii them and made them fuck as they walked past. Jaskier never said how unusual it was that the wolves were so unbothered by their presence, but he did see the large wet spot on the front of the bard's breeches showing he had more than enjoyed the sight.

Comfortable that his work over the last couple of months had finally gotten to the point where Jaskier would let a wolf mount him should the opportunity arise; he doesn’t hesitate to test it out.

First, he manages to slip some wolf pheromones into Jaskier’s shampoo and bath oil, it was a female in heat he’d killed, all so he could cover Jaskier in her scent so that the bard wouldn’t be harmed when a wolf came up to him. True he could just use axii to get the same result but fuck if it didn’t make him hard thinking about Jaskier getting fucked by a wild, untamed beast. Of course, he would be there to make sure nothing bad actually happened, but he would much rather just enjoy the view of his bard being mounted and knot.

Despite the lack of contracts in the area, Jaskier doesn’t even question when he says he’s going out for a hunt, the bard reeking of eagerness and arousal as a wolf howled in the distance, and he knew as soon as he left that Jaskier would be ass up trying to work four fingers in himself to emulate a wolf’s knot. That was something he'd only recently learned when Jaskier had been absent a little too long going o the bathroom, and he's not proud to admit he'd come into his leathers at the sight and sound of Jaskier begging for a knot, but it’s good that he was preparing himself at least.

It’s laughably easy to find the small pack of wolves, only five of them, and after dispatching the two females, they wouldn’t need them now that they would have a new bitch already waiting and eager, he axiis the other three to follow him back to the camp.

He lifts the sign as soon as he catches Jaskier’s scent downwind, mint and honeysuckle and something dirtier, muskier, that came from the pheromones the bard had unknowingly doused himself in, and keeps his distance as he watches the three wolves also catch the scent and eagerly chase after it, red cocks already beginning to peek out of their sheaths at the scent of a female in heat.

By the time they reach camp Jaskier is moaning on three fingers, trying to work them deeper before he realizes he’s not alone and watches the bard turn, only for his dick to twitch and drool precome at the three wolves slowly stalking closer to him, heads bowed low to smell at him.

In the treeline he begins to palm his rapidly hardening cock as he watches the wolves smell around and over the bard, from his face to his neck and down to his balls and hole where he hasn’t even bothered to pull out his fingers, instead working them faster into himself as he watches Jaskier’s gaze fixate at one of the wolves now fully unsheathed cocks.

He has to quickly squeeze his cock tight when he hears Jaskier ask which one of the wolves wants to knot him first and suddenly one of them is mounting the bard, Jaskier barely able to get his fingers away in time before the wolf is humping against him until finally the tapered head of its dick is pushed into Jaskier’s hole.

He knows when it happens with the long groan from Jaskier and the cry of ‘Alpha please’ before the wolf is fucking into the bard with abandon, leaving Jaskier writhing and crying out in pleasure or pain, probably both, the cries mixed with the sound of the wolf’s balls slapping against Jaskier’s and the loud snarls and pants of the two other wolves eager to get their turn.

His eyes fixed on the show in front of him, he quickly tugs at his laces and pulls out his painfully hard dick, already wet and slick with precome as he quickly starts to stroke himself with the alpha’s thrusts.

It’s then he watches Jaskier, still being jostled by the alpha fucking into him, reach up a hand to stroke at one of the other wolf’s pink dicks and lean up to try and take the tip into his mouth, only stopped by the sound of the alpha snarling above him, drool falling across Jaskier’s back as the alpha's tongue hung out of its mouth as it continued to fuck into the bard.

He tries to hold back, wants to draw out his pleasure, but when he hears Jaskier shout and watches the wolf’s thrusts become a lot more stilted and fixed he knows the bard has taken its knot and he can’t help but spill over himself as he watches the wolf tug Jaskier even closer before throwing a leg over and gives shallow rapid thrusts as it pumps Jaskier full of come, and fuck he wished he had a dose of Cat to better see where the man is stuck on the animal's knot.

Jaskier’s moans don't stop, instead encouraging the wolf to fill him with come, to stuff him full of pups, and the words quickly make him hard again, a new record.

Now he has to cast axii, it’s unlikely the alpha will give up the warm clutch of Jaskier’s hole and he wants to watch the bard beg and cry on the other wolf’s knots as well.

He almost regrets making the alpha pull out of the bard what with the pitying whine he lets out, but then immediately after a second wolf is mounting up and in a couple of thrusts has managed to catch on Jaskiers rim and is hunched over the bard as it brutally fucks into him, it’s claws scratching down Jaskiers sides as it shoves him down onto its cock.

His breath catches when he sees the third wolf roll over in front of Jaskier, pink cock exposed and slick with the wolf’s precome and he can’t help but bite his knuckles to keep back his groan as he watches Jaskier lean forward to begin licking at the wolf’s cock, a lewd moan leaving the bard’s mouth after the first taste before trying to grab at it and get more of the thick cock into his mouth.

He’s stripping his own cock now as he watches the wolf fucking into him force the bard forward to take the dick in his mouth deeper until he’s gagging, but the scent of Jaskiers arousal only sharpens as he’s stuffed with wolf cock on both ends, barely able to make out his grunts and moans with the cock in his mouth.

This time he knows the wolf mounted on Jaskier has knotted him when it lets out a small whine and its hips stagger, but still thrusting to milk it’s cock dry as it pants over the bard, and it’s clear the alpha knows as well as he watches it circle behind Jaskier again, able to make out its pink cock slowly dropping from its sheath again, eager for another turn.

It’s then the wolf in Jaskier’s mouth also lets out a whine and suddenly he can hear Jaskier coughing and sputtering as he pulls off the wolf’s cock and watches as it comes over the bard’s face and into his hair, coating him in it’s spend whilst Jaskier got a handle on his breathing again before moving to mouth at the tip and swallow as much as he could whilst he saw the bard's hand clench around the wolf’s knot, coaxing every drop of come from it whilst he drank his fill. and the sight made him clench hard around his dick to stop himself from coming.

He’s sure at this point he’s drawn blood from where he’s still biting down on his fist, hand still clenched around his cock as he watches the alpha snarl and bark at the wolf still mounted in Jaskier before, with a tug to pull its cock free, slinks away with its head bowed as the alpha resumed its position above the bard and easily slipped inside what he was sure at this point was Jaskier’s gaping hole.

The alpha didn’t last nearly as long this time, which is just as well because he didn’t think he’d last long either as he watched Jaskier’s face shoved into the dirt as the alpha pounded into him, barely able to make out the whispered ‘please alpha’, and ‘knot me, fill me with pups alpha’ leaving Jaskier.

It was only when Jaskier cried out, small shudders wracking his frame as he said ‘thank you alpha’ over and over until he became limp under the wolf’s hold that he finally came again, letting out his own snarl as his come painted the forest floor and he only half regretted not adding to what already covered Jaskier.

He watched as the alpha thrust into Jaskier frantically, it’s breathing heavy pants until with a growl it pushed its knot into Jaskier a final time, its snout nosing at the nape of the bard’s neck as it milked his cock dry into Jaskier, filling him with its come just as the man had asked.

Finally, the alpha pulls away and he almost laughs at the way Jaskier reaches out to it, to any of the wolves really as if asking for more, but with a quick sign of axii he’s sending them away and watches Jaskier whine mournfully as they leave.

As soon as the wolves left Jaskier had moved a hand back to shove several fingers back into his hole, likely to keep the copious amounts of come inside him despite the fact he’s already covered in it, from his thighs, all the way to his mop of hair.

It’s then he finally decides to make an appearance, trying to keep his cock in check as it makes a valiant attempt to get hard again at the sight of the bard, one hand fingering at his hole and the other dragging at the come across his face and into his mouth, his belly a little swollen and a puddle of come under him that told him Jaskier had come more than once, all without a hand on his cock and being filled by a wolf’s knot.

It’s only when he gets close enough to touch the bard that Jaskier finally notices him, eyes wide and the sharp twinge of fear tainting the sugar-sweet smell that had filled the camp not a minute earlier.

With a chuckle he kneeled in front of the bard, tangling a hand in his hair before forcing Jaskier to look up at him, a smirk on his lips “So desperate for cock now that you’ll take it from anything”

“Geralt-“ It then he did the all too familiar hand movement and watched as Jaskier’s eyes glazed as the sign took hold.

“You liked being a pack bitch, like being fucked onto a wolf’s knot, just a hole for them to fill with pups”

The way Jaskier’s eyelids fluttered as he moaned was answer enough, even without the whispered ‘yes’, but he just chuckled again as he let go of Jaskier and coaxed him into lying down.

“Rest bard, still got a lot of forest to cover and chances are we’ll come across another pack to breed you” Another moan from Jaskier betrayed his enthusiasm and he couldn’t help but smile at how perfectly his plan had worked out “Maybe I should tie you up somewhere and let the wolves fuck you whenever they want a hole to fuck, make your belly swollen with come as you take each of their knots”

He chuckled as Jaskier shuddered below him before motioning axii one more time “Sleep now, you’re gonna be busy the next few days”

He watched as Jaskier’s eyes slipped shut as he awkwardly lay on the forest floor, fingers still in his hole in a futile attempt to keep himself plugged. He wasn’t cruel, he’d clean Jaskier up and make sure he was fresh-faced for the morning, doused in more pheromones before they set off and already planning the longest route through the forest.

#afterhours cw beastialty #afterhours cw non con #afterhours cw dub con #afterhours cw mind control

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vulturhythm · 4 years

Note

Here's an angst prompt: Jaskier became a bard just before joining Geralt. Now that's ruined. In his anger, he rips up a dandelion or buttercup—his namesake. Hope you feel better!

Dear fucking lord, I completely forgot that this was sitting in my inbox, I’m so, so sorry, my darling!! Please forgive me! I don’t have the time to sit down and right out a full minific right now, but I hope you’ll accept one of my five sentence things for now <3

- - - - -

Geralt never even knew his full name - Jaskier never shared it - he had changed it as soon as he chose to follow the path of music and revelry, had chosen to go by Jaskier, by Dandelion, by anything except a name by which he could remember his life from before. Now, Geralt has gone, and Jaskier’s whole fucking career is in shambles, he can see it already, he knows that it’ll be all but impossible to get back on his feet without fresh tales of the White Wolf to share... Now, Jaskier is trudging down the mountainside alone, truly alone, jaw clenched tight against the tears that well up in his eyes with every shaky breath. Beside the stony trail, he catches sight of a clump of weeds, among which a single golden blossom sits... He kneels down, rips it from the earth, gives no regard to the dirt flung from its root; he stands there and tears the damn thing to shreds, lets its useless yellow petals fall at his feet and drift off into the wind like Geralt had done with him... stands there and cries, now that there’s no one to care.

#answered asks #writing game #geraskier #i’m so sorry my love #i didn’t mean to ignore this!!

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wordsablaze · 4 years

Text

Ch.3. Beaming Blue

Blue Buttercup Almost like buttercups, it took Jaskier a lot of time and trouble to bloom and find his place in the world, but it wasn’t all so golden… (aka: yennefer was his mother way before he was jaskier)

A/N: honestly just fluff bc lil jaskier is adorable ;)

previous chapter

It turns out Blue was fated to be quickly renamed.

(And it was partly his doing.)

Much to Yennefer’s confusion, he refused to tell her his name.

Or anything, for that matter.

It took him more than the small eternity of a very long minute to unwrap himself from her neck and let her breathe properly again.

(She almost missed his warmth - almost.)

It took him well over an hour to really let go of her, as if he was scared she would disappear if they weren’t physically connected.

He stayed attached to her leg or her arm or simply kept a grip of her dress as she completed all her easier tasks, tidying and writing letters and organising small battles, the like.

(It might have been funny if it wasn’t so sad.)

It then took him the whole afternoon to stop trailing her wherever she went, from the kitchen to the gardens to her study, the study she’d never let anyone else even imagine, never mind remain inside with curious eyes.

(He was a quick exception.)

“Aren’t you hungry?” she asks as she sees the sun rapidly sinking, looking up from the treaty she’d been analysing for loopholes.

To her surprise yet again, he merely shrugs.

And she starts wondering again, wondering why he can be satisfied with so little when most humans she’s met have been perpetually hungry, needy, greedy, never turning anything down, especially if it came for free.

(She rarely ever gave anything for free, though.)

“Are you?” he asks, speaking up for the first time since she’d told him he could stay.

She blinks at him, confusing.

“Are you hungry?” he asks again, tilting his head to one side as if wondering where all her intelligence had gone.

Yennefer glances over him properly, making a note to find him some shoes, before her gaze settles on something blue peeking out from under his unfastened doublet.

“Come here,” she asks softly, reaching out a beckoning hand.

He does so immediately.

(She doesn’t let herself dwell on the beauty of his trust.)

Smiling at him so as not to worry him, she gently pushes aside his doublet, trying to get a better look at his necklace and see why it had caught her attention - It’s simple and beautiful and she wonders who gave it to him.

“It’s like me,” he explains before she can ask.

“I’m sorry?”

He smiles at her, at the necklace, and at her again. There’s something sorrowful nestled in his expression as he looks up at her, “It’s me and my flowers.”

Yennefer nods slowly, glancing between his eyes and the small flower, focusing on figuring out what he means rather than questioning where the small pendant came from.

(Questioning who gave it to him.)

“You’re a buttercup?”

He frowns for a moment, something dark and cloudy and deadly in his eyes, before nodding with a bright smile.

“Well then,” she smiles, “it’s nice to meet you, buttercup.”

He positively beams at her and she can’t help but agree that his smile is golden and he is truly an accurate namesake, not that she plans to admit that aloud any time soon.

(But it’s not like she’d planned for any of this.)

“Thank you,” he whispers solemnly.

It takes her far longer than it should to remember what she was doing in the first place, at which point her eyes widen. “Food!”

Buttercup frowns at her. “Are you hungry?” he asks again.

She wants to laugh or scowl but she does neither, simply standing and, to her own shock as well as his, holding out her hand for him to take. Which he does, without hesitation, a beaming smile on his face yet again.

(He smiles too much for her.)

Their meal is quicker this time, his abilities regarding spoons much better the second time round, and she finds herself with an armful of tired gratitude far too quickly for her to have prepared for it.

“Hey, buttercup…” she trails off, deciding not to dislodge him.

He only settles further, his head against her shoulder as if they were made to be pieces of a puzzle slotting together.

She lets him be, simply summoning the treaty from her study and continuing to read it above his head, making notes on what to change in both the relevant King’s and her own favour as she goes, knowing he won’t question her choices in the slightest.

Only when she notices that the boy’s grip is loosening does she stop, glancing down at him, his drooping eyes.

“Buttercup?” she whispers slowly, nudging him as carefully as she can.

(Being careful comes to her with great difficulty.)

“Mhmm?” he blinks up at her, lifting a hand to rub his eyes as he yawns.

Her muscles move on instinct: she smiles.

It catches her off guard and she forgets to reply, but he doesn’t seem to mind, letting his head drop back onto her shoulder with a small, content sigh. As much as she wants to stay where they are, she knows they can’t.

“Let’s get you to a bed,” she murmurs, then pauses.

Exhaling softly, she clenches her jaw and picks him up, her arms wrapped firmly around him and her magic ready to catch him if she drops him.

(She doesn’t, not even nearly.)

He giggles quietly, locking his legs together around her waist, pressing himself against her, radiating a joy she hasn’t felt in years, decades, possibly ever.

Without really thinking about it, she takes him to the spare room closest to hers, it’s the smallest one but she doesn’t think he’ll mind because he’s so small himself.

“Come on, down you go,” she whispers, kneeling beside the bed.

He blinks groggily, slowly untangling himself from her and flopping onto the bed, only for his eyes to widen.

She thinks she’s done something wrong but then he giggles, sitting up and bouncing on the bed with glee shining in the blue of his beaming eyes.

Yennefer squints at him. “What is it?”

He just continues to giggle, his sleepiness temporarily paused as he continues to bounce as if he’s never seen a mattress before, occasionally throwing himself backwards only to bounce back up again with a grin.

(His careless happiness is nearly painful.)

“It’s soft!” he exclaims, beaming at her as if she’d invented beds.

She just nods, equal parts amused and bemused. “It’s just a mattress?”

“Mattress? Mattress… I like mattress!”

Slightly out of her depth yet again, Yennefer just nods, shuffling a little closer to the bed. “That’s great, buttercup, but you’re meant to just sleep on them.”

As if on cue, he yawns again, his eyes watering with the force of it. But he nods dutifully, flopping down once again and giggling when he bounces a little before settling properly, looking up at her with another pure smile.

“Can I jump on the… the mattress tomorrow?”

“Of course,” Yennefer promises, even though she’s confused as to why he’s so happy with such small, almost insignificant demands.

(She’s also confused as to why she’s happy he wants to stay.)

“Thank you,” he mumbles, stretching his arms as he rolls onto his side.

“Goodnight, buttercup,” she whispers, reaching a hand out but thinking better of it, choosing to simply watch him until she feels his breathing relax into the rhythm of sleep.

There’s something about such a small child trusting her to keep him safe that fills her with confusion and dread and what might be warmth, it’s not every day that she’s faced with such a strangely comforting responsibility.

(It might be her favourite responsibility so far.)

And if she enchants the blanket to keep him warm all night, well, nobody has to know.

thanks for reading! | masterlist | next chapter

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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)

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asweetprologue · 4 years

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Fandom: The Witcher Pairings: Geralt/Jaskier Words: 16,147 Chapter: 4/5 Summary: After a job goes wrong, Geralt must rely on Jaskier as he is left blind and deaf. As they attempt to navigate the curse and find out how to lift it, Geralt comes to realize that his feelings for the bard have grown deeper - but how can he know if Jaskier returns those feelings if Geralt can't see or hear him?

Also on AO3 | Part One | Part Two | Part Three

your skin carries echoes of me (part 4)

Initially the journey to Vizima was smoother than their travels from the south. The road was smoother, well travelled by the constant traffic east to west, and Geralt was more confident in his own movements after days of practice. His communication with Jaskier, while still limited, was better than it had been. They had a system, and it was made easier by the lack of obstacles in their path. The first three days of travel passed easily, and Geralt began to feel that he might have been worried over nothing.

Which was, of course, when they ran into trouble.

The evening of the third day they hit the bank of Vizima Lake, where the road began to wrap north towards its namesake. They were making their way along the wet dirt road when Geralt felt Roach falter beneath him, and then Jaskier reached out to tap his knee three times in rapid succession.

Over the past several weeks, Geralt felt that he had become decently in tune with Jaskier’s touch, at least when it came to understanding his mood. When he was annoyed, his touch was brief and sharp; when he was excited it was fast and repetitive. Sometimes it was hesitant or lingering, and Geralt hadn't quite figured those ones out yet, but the feeling was akin to the subdued sense that he got when they sat around the fire at night, Jaskier composing quietly while Geralt made dinner. A few times he had even registered nervousness or fear in Jaskier’s touch, easily identified by the tension in his fingers and the sour smell of his anxiety in the air.

This was nothing compared to the stench of panic that rolled off of the bard now. Geralt was on the ground in an instant, scenting the air as he pulled out his silver sword on reflex. Already the smell of rot and decay was overwhelming the earthy smell of the lakeside, the telltale sign of drowners. A second after his feet sunk into the wet muck, a body slammed into him.

He lashed out on instinct, his blade meeting little resistance as he carved through form in front of him. Immediately the pungent smell of waterlogged flesh intensified, and Geralt felt cold drowner blood splatter across his face and hands. People were always surprised that drowners had red blood. As if they hadn’t been human once too. Geralt took another step forward, feeling the lake water lap at his boots. A small ripple made it rise up to dampen his pant leg, and he turned in a vicious arc to bisect the accompanied lunge from another drowner to his left.

The water around his calves made it easier to predict where they were coming from, but their numbers were enough that a few made some solid hits. Geralt could tell from the immediate burn of the wounds that there were at least some drowned dead amongst them, the older and more aggressive cousin to the drowner. Ordinarily he could have taken out a group such as this - perhaps five, six? - with one hand tied behind his back, but as it was he had to remain defensive as he waited for them to make a wrong step. Though they weren’t intelligent creatures, they were shockingly strong for their lithe forms, and one wrong swipe of a clawed hand could spell the end.

Finally the ripples around him began to die down, and he had one, maybe two at most left harassing him. It was nearly over. He fell again into his defensive position and waited for the last of the attacks.

It was then that he smelled it, sudden and sharp against the earthy smell of the drowners. The metallic of human blood, fresh.

Jaskier.

Geralt turned instantly, uncaring of the drowner left behind him. The smell of blood was strong enough that he could follow it right to the source, back towards where he had left Jaskier with Roach. He thought. Fighting in the water had left him slightly disoriented, unsure of where he’d entered, but his feet were leaving the lake now and sinking into the deep mud of the shore. He rushed towards the smell of blood, reaching out a hand in search of the bard -

And was met with the cold, slimy flesh of a drowner. He brought his sword down, feeling it tear through compact muscle and sinew. The rotten smell of drowner guts almost overwhelmed everything else. Geralt felt another set of fingers scrape tell-tale along his armor, ragged claws attempting to pry him open. He flipped his sword around deftly and stabbed backwards into the body behind him, pausing to feel it fall and go still.

Breathing hard, he reached forward, shoving the dead drowner aside. Underneath it he could still smell the thick iron of human blood, Jaskier’s blood. “Jaskier,” he said, frantic. He couldn’t smell anything besides rotting drowner flesh and blood, his and Jaskier’s mixed together with all the muck and grime of the lakeshore. He reached down, feeling the soft fabric of the bard’s tunic, the frantic beating of his heart beneath. “Jaskier,” he said again, “are you - did it -”

A hand reached out, cool against Geralt’s flushed skin as it settled against his cheek. We’re okay.

Geralt deflated, one hand still braced on Jaskier’s chest as he allowed himself a moment to breathe through his relief. “Fuck,” he said. He took a deep breath through his nose, trying to let the subdued smell of almond soap quiet his racing pulse. The hand against his cheek moved to card through his hair briefly before Jaskier pushed him back. Geralt went, sitting back on his haunches to allow Jaskier to sit up. “Are you hurt? Don’t lie, I can smell your blood.”

A long pause, and then a single tap. Anger surged through Geralt’s chest, tracing the same path that fear had carved in his chest moments before. If it weren’t for this damn curse he never would have allowed Jaskier to be injured. He should never have let the bard come with him to Vizima in the first place; the road was clearly too dangerous for Geralt in this state, let alone Jaskier. There was little to be done now though, miles away from the nearest settlement. “You could have been killed,” he growled. There was no response. “Where?” He started patting down Jaskier’s chest, looking for the source of the smell. Luckily it was already beginning to turn from the salt-and-metal of fresh blood to the sweet, thick smell of clotting. Still, though, with the smell of rot all around them it was difficult not to be worried.

Jaskier grabbed Geralt’s wandering hands and impatiently set one on his forearm, where Geralt could feel a combination of mud and other fluids on the bard’s skin. He felt upwards as gently as he could, testing the skin until he found the ragged edges of the wound. Jaskier flinched but did not move away. The injury was small, two deep rends in Jaskier’s flesh. “This is a bite,” Geralt said, nearly accusatory.

A tap against his shoulder in confirmation. “Drowner bites are dangerous, bard. We’ll have to clean it, and you’ll have to take the modified oriole.” Geralt had taken to making human-friendly versions of his potions whenever Jaskier joined him on the road, a combination of witcher alchemy and classical herbalism. Most of the potions he used regularly could be stripped of the components that made them dangerous for humans - light essence, drowner brain, foglet teeth - and still offer some benefit. They would be in the pack with the rest of his supplies.

He made to stand but was stopped by a finger poking none-to-gently at a claw mark across the back of his hand. A hiss escaped him, more annoyance than pain. He’d not even noticed his own injuries in the midst of the fight, but now that he was paying attention he could feel several across his arms and one on his side. No matter. Nothing he couldn’t handle, and he wasn’t prone to infection as Jaskier would be. “I’m fine,” he said, teeth gritted. “I’m not the one that’s going to die of sepsis.”

He whistled for Roach, and felt her nudge his shoulder a moment later. Even when he’d had a drowner on top of him, she hadn’t strayed far from Jaskier. Geralt made a mental note to give her extra oats when they reached Vizima. “Good girl,” he said, patting her cheek. He took a moment to breathe in her familiar smell, letting it ground him. Reaching into their pack, he rummaged around until he found the appropriately sized bottle, smaller than the ones he used for his own potions. Pulling the stopper out, he sniffed it to make sure it was the correct one before holding it out in Jaskier’s direction. “Drink it now.” The potion should work to clean out poison or infection, but it worked best preventatively. And besides, there was no saying how effective it would be for Jaskier. “We need to set up camp, dress the wound.”

After Jaskier had passed him the empty bottle back, they made their way back to the path and then off it again, into the forested area on the far side of the road. Though there were other risks in the woods, it was less likely that drowners would venture this far from the water. The two men made a quick camp, and then Geralt walked Jaskier through the process of binding his wound.

Once he was satisfied that the smell of Jaskier’s blood was entirely covered by the thick honey and yarrow smell of the healing salve, Geralt began to set up their bedrolls. He had already decided that he wouldn’t sleep tonight, opting to meditate instead. Vizima was only another day’s ride away, maybe two if they were unlucky. He could sleep then. Finished with the beds, he started to fumble for his whetstone when he felt Jaskier’s hand on his arm.

Geratl paused, waiting for Jaskier to indicate what he wanted. Instead, he felt something - dried meats, a small piece of slightly stale bread - shoved into his hand. Nodding his thanks, he shoved a piece of jerky in his mouth and turned back to his previous task. Again he was stopped by Jaskier’s insistent fingers as they pulled his free hand away. Geralt grunted in annoyance when, a moment later, a damp rag passed over the cut on the back of his hand.

“Jaskier,” he said, “that’s not necessary. I’m fine.” The bard swatted him lightly on the shoulder and returned to cleaning his injuries. Jaskier was often like this, after Geralt was in a fight. Patching up wounds that would heal fine on their own, helping him wash off when he could have done it on his own. In some ways it was infuriating; Geralt was not a child that needed looked after, who needed to be coddled after a small scrape. Still, there was another part of him, a part that he had truly thought himself rid of, that was pathetically grateful for it. If only just to have a moment where Jaskier’s fingers danced sweetly over his skin, exceptionally gentle even as he berated Geralt for his lack of caution.

Geralt couldn’t hear the chiding, but Jaskier’s hands were still warm and tender against his own. That night Geralt sat with the bard’s back pressed against his thigh, a line of heat that kept him from falling into a truly meditative state. When they got up the next morning Geralt ached from the lack of rest, but the spot that Jaskier had lay was warm until well after they’d set off down the road.

* * *

They arrived in Vizima late the next day with no further misadventures, much to Geralt’s relief. The gates were crowded with merchants and travelers looking to winter in the capital, and the city’s various urchins moved through the crowd to peddle their wares. Geralt was constantly jostled and grabbed at, though probably not as much as Jaskier, who’s traditionally garb essentially screamed that he was desperate to buy useless bobbles. The smell of people and animals packed tightly together was disorienting, and Geralt fought to focus on following Jaskier’s distinct smell through the crowd. He still smelled faintly of the honey salve they’d reapplied this morning, and the witcher was grateful for the distinct scent to guide him.

Though Geralt couldn’t be sure of his methods, Jaskier wasted no time in leading them away from the more crowded areas of the city. Geralt had told him in the night before that Triss would likely be at the palace, in her own quarters. Fortunately Geralt was, while not a regular visitor, at the very least known to Foltest and most of the old guard. If they called for Triss they should ideally have little trouble gaining an audience with the sorceress, assuming she wasn’t occupied elsewise. It would be just their luck to find her away on business.

Eventually the dirt path beneath Geralt’s feet turned to neat cobblestone, and he realized that they must be in the palace courtyard. Jaskier’s hand moved from Geralt’s wrist where it had been guiding him along to take Roach’s reins from him, presumably to pass on to a stablehand. Typically Geralt wouldn’t leave her care to someone else, but in the last few weeks he’d allowed himself to pass her off on occasion. He gave her one final pat on the neck before allowing Jaskier to lead him further into the palace.

Eventually they came to a stop, and a hand on his shoulder bade him to sit. A moment later he felt Jaskier sit beside him. “Is she here?” he asked the bard. Jaskier pat his hand once. “Hmm.” Hopefully they wouldn’t be kept waiting long, but if Triss was in the middle of something she would be unlikely to drop it without good reason. He settled in to wait, his exhaustion from the night before and the past few weeks in general making it easy to fall into a semi meditative state.

Some time later - it was hard to say, while he was only half aware and there was no light by which to track the time - he felt a hand on his shoulder, rousing him. He turned automatically into Jaskier’s touch before straightening, passing off the motion as a stretch. Another hand reached out to touch his arm, with it the smell of crisp winter apples and the mulled wine Triss prefered in the colder seasons. He found himself smiling slightly as he stood. “Triss,” he said, “good to see you. Or, well. You know.”

You as well, Geralt, came the reply, Triss’ voice echoing through his mind. Geralt was shocked enough that he took a step back, bumping against the cold stone bench behind him. Jaskier’s hand touched briefly against his lower back, and Geralt fought to keep his head clear. If Triss’ voice was in his head then it was very likely that she was as well. Apologies, my friend, Triss continued, her mental voice full of laughter. I have a better way for us to speak, but I need to discuss some things with the bard first. If you’ll follow me back to my quarters we can get this sorted out.

Geralt found himself nodding, thrown off by the sudden presence of another person after weeks of silence. He allowed himself to be led through the palace halls, seeing in his mind’s eye the path that he had walked dozens of times before to Triss’ suite. The distinct smell of Triss’ rooms were unchanged after all these years - dozens of herbs and spices, a whiff of the scented candles that she often burned, and the underlying odor of old blood from when she’d treated various patients, Geralt among them. He was pushed down into one of the many cots in the sorceress’ front room, by hands that were much less accommodating than Jaskier’s. Not for the first time, he found himself grateful that it was Jaskier that had been with him through all of this nonsense.

Geralt waited in silence as the bard and the sorceress spoke, he presumed. Finally a slender hand returned to place a small clay cup in his grasp. The smell of hemlock and mandrake wafted over him, alongside several others that he couldn't place. He frowned.

Trust me. Triss’ voice echoed from the depths of his own mind. Geralt sighed and threw back the potion. The effect was almost immediate, his limbs growing sluggish and his eyelids heavy. Triss spoke again, sounding amused again. I’ll see you soon, Geralt.

He fell swiftly into the warm embrace of unconsciousness.

* * *

Triss was there to greet him when he regained awareness. They were sitting at a table in what looked like a study, the walls lined with books and scrolls that he couldn’t make out the names of. It took him a moment to recognize the significance of the fact that he could see them at all. Triss was smiling at him knowingly, and he thought it just might be the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen.

“Triss,” he said, fondness for her rising in his chest. In his eagerness to get the curse lifted, he'd almost forgotten to be excited about seeing her. “Did you do it? Where are we?” His own voice rang out clearly in the room, startling him.

Triss’ smile never waned. “Unfortunately not. We’re in a dream, actually. It seemed like the easiest way to speak to you, though I’m not the best at mental magics.”

Geralt tried not to feel disappointed. “It’s good to see you, Triss. Good to see anyone, actually.”

Triss laughed, patting his hand. The touch did not linger. “I imagine that’s true. I’ve already walked your bard through the process, but I thought it would be prudent to keep you updated as well. While we’re out he’s going to collect some of the mundane artifacts that we need to lift the curse. Luckily Jaskier saved the objects the witch used in her curse; makes it much easier to reverse engineer it.”

“Hmm. What do we need?”

“Some odds and ends that I have at my disposal, the items she used in her curse, widow’s ashes. That last bit is what Jaskier went to retrieve. He didn't seem happy about it.” Triss still looked deeply amused.

Geralt snorted. “Jaskier digging in a graveyard. Not exactly his forte. Surprised he went along with it.”

Triss sighed at him, leaning back in her chair. Her vibrant green robe cascaded off of the chair, shimmering in a way that could have been magic or just a part of the dream. Her emerald eyes regarded him sharply, though still with affection. “It doesn’t seem that there’s all that much he wouldn’t do for you,” she said.

“Hmm.” Geralt felt a blush rising to his cheeks, which he felt was unfair given this wasn’t even his real body.

“I’m surprised, actually, that you came to me at all. This curse is persistent, but I don’t believe it could withstand a True Act.” She leaned against the table across from him, cupping her cheek in her hand. “It seems to me that you could have broken it at any time.”

Geralt felt his brow lower in confusion. “True Act. What do you mean?”

Triss rolled her eyes, reminding Geralt so much of Yennefer for a moment that he found himself flustered. “An act of true emotion, Geralt. It’s pre-Conjunction magic, the little of it that remains. True love’s kiss is the most typical go-to, especially in the stories. I’m surprised that Jaskier didn’t think of it. He certainly knows the stories.”

Geralt scrambled for a response. “Jaskier isn’t - he doesn’t think of me that way, we’re friends -”

Triss laughed at him then, a full bodied sound that was the very first thing that Geralt had liked about her, besides her kind and intelligent eyes. “Oh, Geralt, dear. You really are the worst at reading people. You really think he follows you around the whole of the Continent for the songs?”

Didn’t he?

Geralt’s chest was tight with panic and, deep down where he’d been storing all of his unending, infuriating thoughts of Jaskier, a longing that ached. Triss had to be reading it wrong. She didn’t understand Jaskier, the way that he loved people so openly, even if only for a moment. It wasn’t that he was in love with Geralt. He was just a little bit in love with everyone. Besides. “Witchers don’t fall in love,” he said.

The look Triss gave him would have been pity if it had been on anyone else’s face. “They don’t,” she agreed, and it had a weight to it that spoke of feelings long past, something between them that would never come to be. “But they certainly can, can't they?”

Geralt felt the dream starting to fragment away. Triss reached for him again, fingers on the back of his hand. Always so deliberate. “The curse will be broken by sunrise,” she said. “Your bard may sing without pause, but the important bits are in what he doesn't say. Remember that.”

She removed her hand, and Geralt fell back into darkness.Fandom: The Witcher Pairings: Geralt/Jaskier Words: 9034 Chapter: 3/5 Summary: After a job goes wrong, Geralt must rely on Jaskier as he is left blind and deaf. As they attempt to navigate the curse and find out how to lift it, Geralt comes to realize that his feelings for the bard have grown deeper - but how can he know if Jaskier returns those feelings if Geralt can't see or hear him?Also on AO3 | Part One | Part TwoFandom: The Witcher Pairings: Geralt/Jaskier Words: 9034 Chapter: 3/5 Summary: After a job goes wrong, Geralt must rely on Jaskier as he is left blind and deaf. As they attempt to navigate the curse and find out how to lift it, Geralt comes to realize that his feelings for the bard have grown deeper - but how can he know if Jaskier returns those feelings if Geralt can't see or hear him?

Part Five

#geralt #geralt of rivia #the witcher #witcher #geralt x jaskier #geralt x dandelion #geralt/jaskier #geralt/dandelion #jaskier #dandelion #fanfiction #my work

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the-bard-followed-the-witcher · 4 years

Text

Geraskier Day 1: - Soulmates (Part 4)

Outside dawn was just now breaking. The inns bar may have been empty, but the streets were different. The warm summer days forced the people to go out later, when the temperature was more bearable, when the sun didn´t burn their eyes. It forced them to use the nights just a bit more than usually. Especially with no monster to fear anymore. It was good to hear that chatter around. Good for the screaming heart to be overruled by the outside world. Distractions were all it boiled down to. His whole life. And so Jaskier once again lost himself in the sound of the night life. Chatter all around, Lamps that were just now being lit, smells of all kinds of herbs from various stands all over the village. It was quite big, the bard faintly noted. Bigger than he had expected a village so close to a forest to be. It was not yet a city, but still big. If he did this with wit, he could earn quite the fair share of coin. Perhaps he could buy himself a better room in the inn then. Perhaps he could even manage to go home with a pretty lady. There surely was a fair share of those around. The males were certainly not too unattractive either. Like out of instinct, he found himself winking to townsfolk over and over. A bard’s charm was his greatest weapon they said. Jaskier had perfected his way with it. He knew how to get what he wanted, or who he wanted. And so, he made his way to the towns middle, through crowded streets and the tight summer air, through happy chatter and loving looks, through perfume clouds and by stands of various products. A flower stand caught his eyes for a second. In particular one little flower. It looked close to a dandelion, but it was different. In the evening light it almost looked like some strange shade of yellow. Bright. But of course, that was impossible. Jaskier knew what dandelions looked like, they were his namesakes after all, and they surely weren´t bright. Jaskier knew what dandelions looked like, he knew why they were pests. Who would want big grey flowers anywhere close? And so, he simply shook his head and headed past the stand with the flowers he didn´t recognize as anything more. The trust in his eyes was lost a long time ago. Too many illusions had he already succumbed to. He knew his imagination had its ways of tricking him, so he focused on what he knew was real. The middle of the village was exactly as he had imagined. A big open space with a bonfire in the middle. The perfect stage. A grin spread on his face. No other bard had taken the spotlight yet. No music was filling the streets. Only chatter. Perfect. Perhaps he really could afford the more expensive rooms by the end of the evening. A look around was all it took for him to find his place. A stone sitting close to the fire but not too close to make his performance a hell to survive. Big enough for him to sit on. Which he did just seconds later, strumming his lute and humming a couple sounds from songs he would never be able to feel. At least while singing he could forget that it was not reality. In his head there was already a list of songs ready, an order with which to charm the crowd. A bard’s strongest weapon was his charm. Jaskier had learned to use that. It was the one thing he was good at. He didn´t have to think for a second which song to do first. It was an obvious choice. And so even before he had started singing, even with just his skilled fingers strumming the lute with all the right sounds, the crowd was already gathering around him. He was too focused on his music to notice any jewellery. Not silver and not of anything new. His fingers played the song with ease, no stumble, no mistake. The people recognized the old classic about soulmates. The cheery happy song with a hint of sadness. The popular ballad of a king and his queen brought together by war before they were brought together by destiny too. It was the one his voice fit best. It was the one he had been hearing since his early adulthood. It had no meaning. Not for a mistake like him. But it was meaningful to anyone that was rightfully here. So Jaskier sang the first words, jumped of the rock, performed his show, get everything exactly right. Exactly as he had practiced. In the light of the fire the colours of the crowd around him were blurry and moving. Beautiful to watch. He made sure to give some girls more of his attention, more of his show. And the people cheered. They sang along to the war cries of the king, they wept with the queen’s discovery, they cheered with destiny binding two souls. With two worlds finally becoming complete. With a kingdom being formed. It was a legend; it was all that kept the people’s hearts beating. The story of the first soulmates. The story of two grey worlds that together painted the whole universe. And Jaskier sang it with the knowledge that that was something he would never experience. But with his fingers moving and his voice acting on its own, he could still imagine. Imagine he was the king. Imagine he was the queen. Imagine that perhaps his universe would get bright one day too. And so, he did. And then the song was over, and he was thrown back to the real world. A world he didn´t belong in. The crowd around him had gotten bigger even than he had thought. He saw little children running over the place, his stage, dancing to the small sound he was still dragging from his lute. He was sweating slightly. But he was smiling still. For the crowd. For the song. For the universe. In the bonfires light he could faintly see the girls smile back at him. He winked in their direction. Giggling. His grin grew smug. It was time for the second song. When you know how to get what you want, it´s almost too easy.

The night got darker, the fire burned down, the crowd grew around the bard that had appeared out of nowhere, taken over the village, made everyone dance. It was something he was good at. It was something that made him think, perhaps his existence was more than just a mistake. Because he sang his songs of love and glory and adventure and the people liked it, enjoyed it, stopped thinking about the seriousness of life for just a second. And his fingers worked mechanically over the strings of the lute he had bought with his last coin over a decade ago, it had become his steady companion, his bringer of freedom. It was almost as if the lute was playing itself. All he had to do was sing. All he had to do was pretend that he knew what he was singing about. All he had to do is forget for an evening. He faintly registered the sound of coin hitting the ground all around him, distinctly felt it under his shoes as he danced through the moving crowd, purposefully bumping into the girls from earlier. They simply giggled. He made sure to gift them one of his charming grins, the ones that promised trouble. It always worked. With the fire still cackling behind him, and his voice still covering the whole place, everything seemed surreal. Everything seemed to be moving, flowing, with him. For a second he forgot, truly forgot, that he did not belong into this moving mass. He let himself prosper in the feeling. Belonging. God, it had been ages since he had given a show like this. Since he had experienced a crowd like this. Ecstatic. Eternal. Alive. As a bard this was his proudest moment. Even if he couldn´t sing with his heart, even if he couldn´t feel his words.

It was only when the moon was high in the sky that the strumming of strings, the rhythmic moving of bodies, the echoing of a voice stopped, got lost in the eternal width of the universe. The crowd had already disrupted a fair amount, it was late after all, and moments of infinity are only bearable for so long. Still Jaskier bowed, bowed to the few people still there, bowed to the girls still giggling, bowed to his lute even. To every bard that came before him. The grin on his face didn´t falter for a second. When he looked around the big marketplace in the firelight, he couldn´t help but widen his grin. There was coin everywhere around. In the firelight the grey he was so used to seemed to glister orange, to shine with new life. He giggled, surely the euphoria was getting to his head. He leaned his lute on the rock before dragging his fingers across the first few coins, the first few gifts of this evening. He held them in his grip unaware that he just had to open his eyes to find something new. Unknowing that this was what would change everything. He was too distracted by the giggling girls that were all watching him tenderly as he scooped up fists of coin. He couldn´t remember the last time he had made such an amount, and he wasn´t even counting yet. The weight of his purse was enough of an indication about the amount it was filled with. He didn´t know that what was inside was his destiny too. Didn´t know that he just needed to look. Instead he watched girls meant for others. Destined to be with someone else. All still desperate for some kind of love before destiny allowed the eternal affection to begin. Jaskier knew the kind. And so, he smiled at them whenever he could, made sure to glance in their direction ever so often, tried his best to make them stay. Make at least one night meaningful. He needed the distraction that was for sure. He had made his evening one to enjoy, now he just had to make it last. And so Jaskier the bard, Dandelion, trotted towards the group of girls, wallet heavier than most months, lute firmly in his grip, and a smile, a smile more charming than any destiny could ever be. Jaskier knew how to get what he wanted.

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