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Considering the hell Geralt had raised over his Child Surprise, he sure seemed to forget about it quickly.
After they had left the Cintran court, Geralt had made it a point to never speak of that night, or anything relating to it, again. He avoided Cintra during their travels, even when Jaskier had been complaining about drinking ale that tasted like dirt for at least a week and a half, he sulked more than usual when he heard the locals of whatever rundown little town they were staying in discuss the recent birth of Cintra’s lion cub, and he all but physically restrained Jaskier to keep him from replying to Calanthe’s begrudging invitation to perform at the princess’s first name day celebration.
And Jaskier complied, more or less. He settled for subpar ale and bedrolls in the woods, spent the night in the arms of some busty barmaid or timid stableboy whenever Geralt heard news regarding Cintra, and recommended other (lesser, but not terrible) bards for the princess’s celebrations. He complained about this whenever he could, of course, but Geralt was determined to best destiny, and trying to convince him to go against that was like trying to reanimate the dead.
Regardless, just because Geralt was fine with running away until destiny inevitably knocked him unconscious didn’t mean that Jaskier was.
~
It was common practice for Geralt and Jaskier to spend at least a month or two away from one another in the span of a year. Jaskier had never been particularly fond of it, but Geralt had his witcher-y nonsense to tend to, and Jaskier had to admit that playing in courts or returning to Oxenfurt for a few weeks did help him keep up with the times; Farmers were fine with any song that kept spirits high and taverns loud, after all. His fellow creatives were not.
It was through this brief break from Geralt that Jaskier was finally given the opportunity to meet with the White Wolf’s Child Surprise, the Lion Cub of Cintra; He had received his yearly invitation to Cintra’s court, more of a formality by now than an actual invitation, and could nearly imagine the surprise on Calanthe’s face when his warm agreement returned in place of his usual half-hearted recommendation.
It took him longer to arrive in Cintra on his own than it would’ve with Geralt, who had no qualms pushing Jaskier to his very limits. He probably even delighted in it, the bastard.
Still, he arrived with a few days to spare before the princess’s name day; Time to rest from his journey, reacquaint himself with these people he hadn’t seen since Geralt’s biggest tantrum to date. They were fine people; If Jaskier had met them years ago, when he was still fresh-faced and new to the bardic industry, he likely would’ve been intimidated even, but traveling with Geralt did have its perks.
Duny and Pavetta were as accommodating as he had expected, and Calanthe as sparse. Pavetta had warmly remarked on her mother’s hatred of the niceties and etiquette court required one evening, and Jaskier had allowed himself a fond little grin. I wonder who that sounds like.
~
He didn’t meet Geralt’s Child Surprise until his second day in Cintra, but when he did, he couldn’t imagine why Geralt would want to avoid her so. She was a charming little thing; Young and timid enough to still stand just a bit behind her mother’s leg when she introduced her to him, but bold enough to warmly offer him her hand and a big grin. She recited her full name and title with a haughty, falsified sort of accent, and giggled when Jaskier dropped down to one knee and kissed her hand with a dramatic flourish.
When the time came for Jaskier to perform at her name day celebration, she perked up from where she had previously been staring darkly at the table, looking on in intrigue. As the night stretched on and the court clearly bored of pretty classics, he switched to jigs and crowd-favorites, not bothering to restrain his grin when little Cirilla, despite being unfamiliar with the tune, tried her best to clap her hands in time with the rest of the crowd.
When she thanked him with a hug around his legs after the celebration, Jaskier had already made his mind up.
Fine then. If Geralt won’t bother to check in on his Child Surprise, then I will.
~
And he did so as frequently as possible. Every name day, he stole away from Geralt’s side and to the Cintran court, bringing with him new songs and little treats to delight the princess.
He always stayed for at least two days, resting for one and performing for the other. As Ciri grew older, his stays gradually lengthened, becoming three to four days. The first two would go the same as they had before, but afterwards, he spent his days distracting Cirilla from her studies, asking for help on unreleased songs, picking flowers with her in the royal garden, or even just telling her stories of the mysterious White Wolf and his adventures, changing just a few details to make them more appropriate for such a young audience.
His longest stay was after he had received news of Duny and Pavetta’s passing.
When he arrived in Cintra, having stolen away from Geralt despite his suspicion born from Jaskier's deviation from their normal schedule, he had ignored Calanthe’s hiss that they had no need for a bard at the moment and requested to see Cirilla immediately.
She was more resigned than she had been the previous year, that much was obvious. It hurt Jaskier to see Cirilla, who he had seen grow from a toddler into a young woman on the brink of adolescence, look so worn. She had the same under-eye bags that Calanthe bore, albeit lighter, and the whites of her eyes always seemed a soft shade of pink. There was no trace of the Cirilla who delighted in stealing away from Court to play in rags in the town square and who scoffed at the thought of meditation and etiquette classes and instead ran to Jaskier for lessons on singing or lute-playing. She was almost adult now, giving Jaskier a small, tight smile that looked more like a grimace when she saw him.
That time, he stayed for seven days, just holding Cirilla and offering her the comfort that he knew Calanthe struggled with. Calanthe was so unlike Pavetta at times, harder and hiding her sadness behind a facade of anger, throwing herself into further training and indulging in solitary mourning. Cirilla, though, was still just a young girl; Tactile, longing to be held and comforted and told that everything would be alright.
And Jaskier had no problem providing that. He held her against his side when she saw her mother’s favorite flower or father’s favorite book and couldn’t hold back the tears anymore, he sang her songs and read her stories to soothe her to sleep, he eased her worries however he could.
When he reluctantly left the princess to return to Geralt’s side, it pained him as it would a father, though it soothed him somewhat to see her eyes no longer red-rimmed, her smile a little less tight.
When he saw Geralt next, he was given a knowing, pointed look. Neither of them spoke.
~
They continue on that way, for a little while. Jaskier sees Ciri every year, Geralt says nothing, Jaskier is back within the week.
Honestly, he’d be content if things were the stay this way; He’d like to see Ciri more, of course, but he isn’t displeased with their arrangement. Besides, by this point he’s sure the only way Geralt would ever willingly meet Cirilla, even (especially) if Jaskier were to wax poetic over her charms for hours on end, would be if the world was close to ending.
Looking back on it, it’s unfortunate to know that he was right.
~
It doesn’t take Jaskier long to find Ciri. In fact, it’s almost comically easy.
He’s playing in some shitty tavern after his fallout with Geralt, short on coin yet worried and angry enough to snap when someone insults his performance, even if they didn’t bother throwing food at him this time.
That, as Jaskier expected, was a surefire way to get him thrown out of the tavern and into the town’s tiny, yet busy, marketplace. He’s huffy, standing and brushing dirt off his doublet while shouting some decidedly not child-friendly words at the barkeep before stomping off into the market.
It’s there that he sees something suspicious; A cloak, vibrant blue despite being stained with dirt and mud, finely embroidered along the edges. It sticks out like a sore thumb amongst the crowd of browns, blacks, and whites, and though Jaskier knows he’s almost certainly being irrational, he feels a spike of hope and can’t help running up to the little cloaked figure.
His efforts turn out to be worthwhile. The little figure stiffens immediately when his hand lays upon her shoulder, but when she turns to face him, her fear-pinched features instantly smooth into relief.
“Jaskier!” She cries, falling into his open arms. He just holds her for a few seconds, petting her hair and enjoying the all-encompassing relief that he feels. When they do pull away, it’s not before Ciri can murmur a soft, “Fiona.” into his ear and Jaskier can nod his understanding.
“Little one,” Jaskier says, as gently as he can, “would you like to come along with me?”
Ciri reaches up and firmly grabs his hand, and that’s all the answer Jaskier needs.
~
They head straight to Oxenfurt, not bothering to make stops unless absolutely necessary. Jaskier, who would normally be complaining and calling Geralt a brute if they were traveling together like this, instead sings lighthearted songs and fills Ciri in on his plan as they get closer and closer to the University.
They make just one stop before arriving, purchasing hair dye for Ciri and a room. She doesn’t seem exactly pleased to dye her hair a chocolate brown shade matching Jaskier’s, but she goes through the procedure without fuss regardless. Brave girl, Jaskier thinks with a fond smile as he gently applies the dye and washes out the remnants. The next day, he picks up clothing from the market more befitting someone of his class; They aren’t shabby by any means, as the towns near Oxenfurt enjoy their fair share of wealth, but they also aren’t Ciri’s hand-tailored, obviously upper class dress and cloak either.
He hides those away in his pack, styles her hair into something neat and pretty but not extravagant, and gives her a big grin.
“You look positively dashing, Your Highness.” He says, making sure that his voice sounds playful enough that, if overheard, the title would be interpreted as a doting father speaking to his daughter as opposed to a lowly bard speaking to an actual princess.
Cirilla gives him a smile in return, still small and a bit tired but genuine nonetheless, and they head back onto the road after supper.
~
They arrive at Oxenfurt within the next two days. The professor who opens the door grins widely upon seeing Jaskier and embraces him, though he does send a curious look Cirilla’s way.
The girl, having previously stood bravely beside Jaskier, falters and hides behind his leg just slightly. Jaskier, his heart warming, is reminded of the little girl he met years ago, gripping her mother’s skirt in one tiny hand while peering over curiously.
“This is my daughter,” Jaskier explains, laughing exasperated at the professor’s own shocked laugh, “Fiona.”
“Well then, my lady,” The professor addresses her directly now, a warm look in his eye. “It’s a pleasure to have you with us. Any friend of Jaskier’s is a friend of ours! Or, eh, daughter, I suppose.”
Ciri smiles a bit at that, still unsure, but charmed by the stuttering usually uncharacteristic of bards.
“You must be tired from your journey, yes? I hear you’ve been going all over the Continent with that White Wolf of yours.” The professor sends Jaskier a salacious grin, and though it still hurts a bit to think of Geralt, Jaskier manages to hide it with an eye roll and a shriek of, “Children!”
Ciri seems confused, but not uncomfortable. She knows of the White Wolf, of course; Jaskier’s most popular songs were all about him, and his most popular stories too, but she’s never actually met him. Everything she knows about Geralt has come from Jaskier, and everyone seems to mention Geralt when they see Jaskier, and yet she’s never actually met the man.
Jaskier isn’t surprised that she’s confused. He’s just grateful she doesn’t ask about it.
~
Ciri settles into Oxenfurt much better than Jaskier had expected. She comes out of her shell almost immediately, coaxed out by the good meals and the light atmosphere and the gentle doting of almost all of Jaskier’s peers.
She falls for not only the people of Oxenfurt, but the University itself too, it seems. Once she’s comfortable and her defenses are mostly down, she allows herself to indulge in the teachings offered at the University, picking up classes in theatre, music, history, and even politics.
Every evening she comes to their room chattering about something new she learned in one of her classes or that a professor taught her personally, asking new questions and requesting input on her own songs or performances.
Tonight, she’s focused on theatre.
“Jaskier!” She smiles at him as she closes the door to their room behind her, jumping into bed beside him. He sets his lute and notebook aside, brushing her soft brown hair out of her face and humming for her to continue.
“You’ll never guess what the theatre classes are getting ready to perform.”
It’s nice, he thinks, to see this side of Ciri again. Oxenfurt really has been good to her; She’s exuberant again, singing along with Jaskier and dancing jigs she’s been taught by students. She shows a love for learning, previously hidden by the stuffy tutors and textbooks she’d been given in Cintra. She’s a real socialite, his little cub, but he’s happy enough just to see her without the dark cloud of fear and mourning surrounding her.
“What are they performing, little cub? Ah, wait, let me guess! Everyman, again? It’s not like they put that on every other year. I mean, seriously, I could recite every line of that play, and you know I am not exactly a thespian, my dear.”
"You had me fooled." Ciri teases in reply, her smile bordering on a smirk as Jaskier sputters indignantly, asking a shrill, "Now what is that supposed to mean?!"
"That!" Ciri chuckles at the exaggerated disgust in his tone, but hushes him. “It’s an original, based on your White Wolf. Maybe you could contribute to the writing of it? Or the casting? Though it does seem it will be hard to cast a man as appropriately ‘ethereally, heart-stoppingly beautiful’ to play the Wolf.”
She snickers, but her expression changes when Jaskier momentarily stops petting her hair. It’s a subtle thing, hardly noticeable, but his Ciri is one of the most observant people he’s ever met, and has come to know him and his reactions in-and-out since he found her.
“Are you not happy?” She asks, voice soft with concern. “I’m sorry, I thought you’d be excited… You always sounded happy when you told me about him.”
At that, Jaskier’s fond smile returns. She’s wise beyond her years, and mature beyond them too, but there are moments when the innocence of childhood still shines through her. She’s eager to please, and to make him happy, and Jaskier could never fault her for that.
“There’s no need to apologize, little cub. The White Wolf and I had a falling out some time ago, around when I found you, that’s all. You couldn’t have known. In fact, I'm rather grateful for it, as it led me to you.”
Ciri frowns, but doesn’t reply. Instead, she simply burrows into his side, offering comfort as best she can.
Sweet girl, Jaskier thinks, ignoring the wrench in his heart.
~
Jaskier has always respected destiny, even when it acted in confusing or unfair ways. He’d left all the cursing of it to Geralt, but now, with a nervous-looking bard informing him that the Witcher himself is standing at the entrance to Oxenfurt, Jaskier allows himself to murmur just a few sharp curses under his breath.
Thankfully, Ciri is off sitting in on lectures, so she doesn’t see him storm out of the room with his face set in his best imitation of a murderous glare.
“What.” He seethes when he lays eyes on Geralt, looking the exact same as he had when he had sent Jaskier off back on the mountain. His face is set, unimpressed, and he still smells of horse and dirt.
“Yennefer told me you were here.” He offers simply, completely avoiding Jaskier’s demand for explanation, as the bard probably should have expected.
“How does she- You know what, it doesn’t matter. What matters is what the hell you are doing here. I granted you life’s one blessing, what else do you want from me, Witcher?”
Geralt’s face softens, just slightly, at that. It’s unusual for Jaskier to show any emotion other than pure joy or mostly-joking annoyance, after all. Jaskier doesn’t think Geralt has even seen him genuinely angry before this.
“I…” Geralt stalls, shutting his mouth. “Can we go somewhere private?”
Jaskier scoffs, but acquiesces nonetheless, leading Geralt to the University gardens. They’re empty at this time of day, with the students and professors being occupied with classes, and he knows they’re less likely to be overheard here than in his room.
“Get on with it, then.” Jaskier says as soon as they’ve sat on one of the garden’s stone benches, making a dismissive hand gesture that feels anything but.
“I…” As before, Geralt stops himself before he can get far, shoulders hunched in discomfort and eyebrows knitted. Jaskier lifts his own brow impatiently.
“I wanted to apologize.”
That gets Jaskier’s expression smoothing out into one of pure confusion. He had never expected for Geralt to apologize; He had made it perfectly clear on that mountain that he didn’t care for him, after all, and people don’t apologize for things they couldn’t care less about. And even if Geralt did care about him a little, Jaskier doubted that he cared enough to set aside his obvious discomfort with vulnerability. “You what?”
“I said I’m sorry. For, you know. What I said. On the mountain. It… it wasn’t right of me.”
His words are stilted, his inexperience with voicing his emotions obvious. Jaskier knows he should hold his ground, but he can still feel himself softening, just a tad.
“Geralt. You have to be kidding.” He says instead of allowing himself to melt into a puddle of butter, crossing his arms over his chest. “You can’t just show up out of the blue after god knows how long and expect me to just, what? Run away with you again? Or are you just looking for her and I’m the wicked witch you need to appease to get to the princess?” He scoffs, nearly baring his teeth at the thought. As much as he hates to admit it, at this point, he wouldn’t be surprised if Geralt were just half-heartedly apologizing to him to steal Ciri away.
Geralt, though, just looks confused.
“Her? Jaskier, what are you talking about?”
“Don’t act stupid, Witcher, it’s unbecoming on you. Obviously Yennefer must have told you of the status of your Child Surprise, yes?”
“Jaskier, have you found her?” Geralt’s question doesn’t bare the shocked, amused, you, of all people? Jaskier expected. Rather, he sounds alert, almost hopeful like Jaskier had been when he saw that little blue cloak.
“Did you really not know, Geralt?”
“Take me to her.”
Geralt, as per usual, dances around the question, standing up and striding right back into Oxenfurt. Jaskier sputters and jogs behind him, shouting about how he’s still owed an apology, a proper apology, but the light in Geralt’s eyes quells some of his fire.
~
They fall into a simple sort of domesticity after that. Jaskier, for the first few days, constantly expected for it to all come crashing down. But it hasn’t, at least not yet.
Ciri had taken to Geralt much like she had taken to the other bards and actors of Oxenfurt. She’d gasped when she saw him, eyes alight when she’d called out a, “It’s the White Wolf!”
Geralt had stiffened a bit, unused to and not expecting the joyous welcoming, but he’d warmed to Ciri soon enough. He cared for her in his own ways, offering her his desserts after every meal and teaching her various things about monsters and fighting and strategy. She soaks it up just the same as she soaked up information about the fine arts, letting Geralt teach her the basics of sword fighting with a couple of swords he had smuggled away from the fencing classes.
Jaskier is delighted to see them bond, but his heart is warmed most when he sees them both in the crowd of one of his lectures, sticking out amongst the mass of young men even though they sit in the back. He lets a smile, softer than the full grins he gives his students when telling jokes or discussing his subject, grace his face, and then refocuses himself on the lesson.
His students love him; He’s not a full time professor at Oxenfurt, of course, but his spike in popularity had given him the opportunity to teach a few lectures here and there whenever he stopped by the University, and they were always packed.
As the lecture went on, Geralt had to admit he could see why that was the case. Jaskier was enchanting, whether he was singing to a crowd of drunkards and dirty from travel or pristine and flitting around a classroom. He joked with his students, answered questions without judgement, and managed to make even the most boring topic seem enthralling.
Regardless, when Jaskier asked what he thought of his lecture later that evening, Geralt grunted out a, “Tolerable at best.”
Jaskier smiled and gave a, “Hm.” that showed just how little he believed Geralt’s insult. For once, the Witcher understood how Jaskier must feel on their travels.
~
Yet another set of unwanted visitors comes shortly after Geralt does, but this time, they’re genuinely unwanted.
He’s done his best to hide his background from both Geralt and Ciri, avoiding Lettenhove much like Geralt had avoided Cintra and dancing around questions regarding his past.
Despite his best efforts, though, his past always found a way to catch up with him. In this case, his past came in the form of nearly his entire family banging on Oxenfurt’s grand doors, barging in, and then proceeding to bang on the door Jaskier’s room.
Geralt, Ciri, and him immediately stiffen upon hearing the banging. Ciri looks at him with big, nervous eyes, gripping his hand tightly, and Geralt doesn’t hesitate to reach for his sword.
It’s the shriek of, “Julian! I know you’re in there!” from his mother that has Jaskier sighing, but relaxing. Geralt sends him a look, but slowly lowers his sword when Jaskier motions for him to. He assures Ciri that it’s nothing to worry about, squeezing her shoulder before getting off the bed and moving over to Geralt instead. With Ciri out of earshot, his voice hardens into a tense whisper, asking, “What the hell do we do?!”
Geralt, to his credit, seems to have picked up on the situation. Even though he doesn’t know much about Jaskier’s background or his family, he knows his birth name, and is intelligent enough to piece together at least a rough idea of what’s going on.
Before he has time to reply, though, Jaskier’s mother is forcing her way into the room, his father and siblings following close behind.
“Mother!” He says with a tense smile, throwing his arms out to the side. “So good to see you!”
She doesn't bother gracing him with a reply, skipping right over the niceties she usually enjoyed and simply looking at Jaskier with cold eyes.
“What is this about a bastard daughter, Julian? If you’re going to go around sleeping with every whore in the Continent, couldn’t you at least have used the little bit of sense in that empty head of yours and not gotten them pregnant?”
His mother is seething, nails biting into the flesh of her palms by her sides. His father chuckles humorlessly and says something or other about how grateful he is that they had his older brother so that Jaskier couldn’t go and destroy their good name by spreading their family across the Continent.
He’s used to the degradation by now, and used to dealing with it when he has to. He doesn’t want to worsen the scene they’re already causing, and he definitely doesn’t want to get kicked out of what has been a sanctuary to him and his little family for the past few months, so he just steels his shoulders and casts his eyes to the ground submissively, like he knows his mother wants.
Seeing Geralt, though, and hearing Ciri’s breath heavy with fright behind him, fills Jaskier with the anger he needs to meet his mother’s fiery eyes.
“God damn it, mother! Can't you see how much I've done in some idiotic attempt to convince you all to love me?!" He looked accusingly at everyone in the room, excluding Geralt and Ciri, and was unsurprised to find slack-jawed looks of shock peering back at him. He had never before truly stood up to his parents, after all; Occasionally he would reply with a grumbled snide remark, but most times, he had just tried to tune out the abuse before apologizing and slinking away with his tail in between his legs. It was easier than putting up a fight, and usually turned out better for him, especially given how physically unimposing he had been growing up.
"For nearly two decades of my life I did exactly as you said. I didn't sing because you said it hurt your ears, I poured myself into my studies because you said I wasn't bright enough to go anywhere without them, I even considered an engagement! And yet still, it's always, 'No Julian, you're too loud,' 'No Julian, you sound stupider than a babe,' 'No Julian, she's not pretty enough, we don't want dumb and ugly grandchildren' and I listened! I'm sick of letting you dictate my life!"
The room was silent, and Jaskier took in a deep breath.
"I won't let you take this from me too, mother. I'm done trying to please you. So if you would please leave tone-deaf, stupid, whorish me and my family alone-"
"Family?!" His mother let out a high, surprised laugh, her eyebrows nearly to her hairline. "What a ragtag family this is, Julian! I mean really, a bastard whore's daughter? A Witcher? You have to be joking, Julian."
The insults against Ciri and Geralt merely angered Jaskier further, but before he could set his mother straight, Geralt had already strode over and grabbed hold of her upper arm.
"I suggest you do as Jaskier says and leave us be." If the circumstances were different, Jaskier would have been charmed to notice that Geralt put on his big scary witcher-y voice just to get rid of something distressing Jaskier, but as things were, he was simply hoping that it had the intended effect.
Unfortunately, nothing much seemed to go Jaskier's way. Rather, Jaskier cringes as his mother stammers, demanding that Geralt unhand her while calling him a multitude of insults- mutant, monster, butcher.
It's that one that gets Geralt tightening his grip to the point of pain.
"I said," He growls a little now, talking to Jaskier's mother in the same way he did the bandits they sometimes encountered or violent, over-confident drunkards. "I suggest you leave us be. For good."
This convinced his mother, although she didn't leave easily. With a glare and one last reminder of Jaskier's status as the family disappointment, she heralded his father and siblings out of the room, slamming the door behind her.
Confident that they were gone for good, Jaskier let out a deep sigh, slumping where he had previously stood tensely in the middle of the room. Also immediately, Ciri ran to him from where she had felt frozen on the bed, gently grabbing his hand and asking a concerned, "Are you alright, Jaskier?"
Geralt didn't verbalize his concern, but he did send a look Jaskier's way which he had come to understand as Geralt's I'm worried/Are you hurt look. He sent a tired nod and smile Ciri's way, bending down to pick up the young girl. He made a show of picking her up, huffing and puffing when she was securely in his arms, even though she had only just startled to gain back all the weight she had lost since fleeing Cintra, and was still quite thin for a girl her age. It reassured both her and Geralt that he really was alright, even as he said a soft, "I'm alright, little cub, don't worry about me."
"Let's lie down." She suggested, her brows still pinched slightly with worry. His little cub had become quite the worrywart, understandably. I wonder who that sounds like.
"I can... I don't know, I can sing you a song! I've been practicing quite a bit, and the professors say my skills are quite advanced for a girl my age." She said this with an air of pride about her, the corners of her lips upturning into a little smirk. "Oh, and I can braid flowers into your hair! I picked a couple from the University's gardens the other day."
Geralt, ever unused to providing verbal comfort or voicing his personal thoughts, didn't reply, but gave Jaskier a look that was nearly imploring.
"You know what, little cub? That sounds lovely."
~
And it was lovely, sitting in the big bed with his head in Ciri's lap and his hand in Geralt's. She sang him a soft song, something sweet and slow that suited her high voice well, and brushed through his hair, not wanting to encounter any nights when she tried to braid the flowers in.
Geralt runs his finger gently over the back of Jaskier's hand, tracing small patterns.
Jaskier closes his eyes, warmed by the gentle care of his family.