Chapter Text
It's a sunny day, warm and still, when a man in blue and gold livery approaches them on the road and Jaskier's new life is turned upside down.
They're on their way back to Maribor with the corpse of a kikimore. It's an unusual contract in that the monster was already dead – they were just supposed to fetch the corpse. Geralt had grumbled a bit about it not being "witcher business" but the alchemist who hired them said he couldn't get anyone else to go near a rotting kikimore and was willing to pay well for a glorified delivery service. Jaskier's regretting convincing Geralt to take the job now, the smell is unbearable. He places himself firmly upwind of Roach and her noxious burden on the walk back to the city.
He sees Geralt notice the messenger before he sees the messenger themselves. His witcher has this way of turning his head when he's listening intently; it makes him look like a hunting dog.
Lots of noble houses use blue and gold livery, Jaskier tells himself, but a part of him knows, on an instinctual level, where this messenger has come from. His biggest fears are confirmed when they get close enough for him to see the family crest, dusty from the road.
They're from the Pankratz family of Lettenhove. Fuck.
The messenger slows his horse into step with Roach and says, "You're the White Wolf. I heard you were in Maribor, how fortunate to meet you on the road."
Jaskier can't breathe. It feels like the man's very presence is smothering him. He clenches his teeth and tries to steady himself. He can't give away that he's flustered, it'll only lead to more questions.
"Yes," Geralt says with his usual reticence. "Fortunate."
'Do something. Make him leave. I can't go back to Lettenhove.'
He'd rather die.
"The witcher is busy, so sorry, no new contracts, goodbye," he says in a rush, ignoring the look Geralt shoots at him. Not now. He'll come up with an excuse for his reticence when he can think straight.
"But my lady-" the man starts to protest.
'Fuck your lady,' he wants to say.
"My apologies to your lady," he says instead. "I'm afraid there's nothing to be done. It's witcher code, he can't accept a new contract until the last one is paid, sorry. Goodbye!"
The messenger thinks about this for a second before declaring, "then I will accompany you to town."
"That's really not necessary!" His voice goes a little too high; he hopes no one notices.
The messenger doesn't leave, though. Something about seeing him next to Roach feels surreal, like this reminder of his past couldn't possibly interact with his present. He doesn't recognize the man himself, so he hopes the man doesn't recognize him. Maybe he can still find a way out of this. Fuck, Geralt will know if he panics. He needs to stay calm, not arouse suspicions.
Geralt touches his arm and Jaskier concentrates on not flinching.
"What's the matter?"
Even if he wanted to tell him, he's pretty sure that would violate the Rules. Instead he relies on an old favorite, "I can't tell you."
He can tell Geralt's annoyed by the non-answer. He's going to need a better explanation later.
"Tell your lady I'm not interested," the witcher says, thank the gods.
"But Master Witcher-"
"No."
Jaskier can't resist putting in, "You heard the man, go!"
"I can't," the messenger says and something about his tone unnerves him. Can't. "I have my orders. Take pity." He should've known she'd do something like this. The man will be magically compelled to complete his orders, whether he wants to or not. Short of knocking him unconscious, it's unlikely they can deter him. Fortunately Jaskier has a lifetime of experience finding loopholes in just such orders.
"Hold on, Geralt. I know this man's mistress. She's a cruel woman; she does not take kindly to being disobeyed." None of it's a lie. Moreover, it's the sort of thing Geralt will find compelling. He hates nobles anyway, it shouldn't be hard to convince him not to bow to a sadistic viscountess. "What's your name?"
"Florian, sir."
Sir. He doesn't know who Jaskier is. That's good.
"Florian. If you follow us to Maribor, whether we take the contract or not, will that satisfy your orders?"
Florian considers it. "I believe so, sir."
That decides it, then. "That is what you will do."
"Thank you, sir. You're very kind mister…?"
He doesn't dare give him his name, not even his new one. Instead he does his best impression of his eldest brother – Lukast's tone assumes obedience in a way that only a lifetime of authority can engender – and says, "I should like to travel in the quiet if I were you, Florian."
Florian's mouth snaps shut. Jaskier feels a little bad about it, but only a little. The sooner they get rid of this man the better. He can ride off to deal with the fallout of the Viscountess de Lettenhove not getting her way and Jaskier can keep living his life, free from his family.
"She'll be displeased if I return without the White Wolf," Florian protests when he tries to speedily part ways at the city gates. Jaskier sympathizes, he does, but he promised himself he wouldn't have to do anything just because she wanted him to ever, ever again, so – it's not the most convincing thing in this case, is the point.
"You fulfilled her orders to the best of your abilities," he tries to comfort him. She won't be able to doubt it, not with her accursed potion controlling him. "The White Wolf has simply declined to come." He can't resist planting the seed of rebellion. "If that will not satisfy her, perhaps you should consider finding new employment."
"You don't understand-" Florian tries to tell him.
'No, I understand too well.'
"Goodbye, Florian."
He turns away, effectively ending the conversation when Geralt follows him into the city.
"Is she as bad as all that?" Geralt asks. They're able to make their way largely unimpeded through the streets; the crowd parts like oil and water – that's not the right simile, what's he trying to think of? Anyway – the crowd parts in the face of their stinking, rotting kikimore.
"The absolute worst, Geralt," he assures him. He almost expects more questions but Geralt accepts his word without further protest. Jaskier said no and Geralt listened.
They find an inn – The Bored Child, not the most inspiring name but certainly unique and, more importantly, they can afford a room – and Jaskier tries not to look too desperate to be allowed to perform. He's aching for a distraction after the unexpected messenger from his past.
"Good day, sir," he says to the innkeeper with one of his enchanting smiles. The man looks bored. "We need a room for the evening."
"How many beds?"
They can afford two. "One. And a hot bath." He holds his hand out behind him without looking and Geralt, with a long suffering sigh, puts his newly full coin purse in his palm.
"Up the stairs, second on the right," the innkeeper says as he slides them a key. "I'll send up a girl with the water."
"Thank you."
Geralt lumbers off, saddlebags over his shoulder, while Jaskier stays behind to negotiate further.
"You wouldn't happen to want any entertainment for the evening?" he asks, hoisting his lute on his shoulder a bit. It only took one time of the offer being mistaken for something else to make him a bit more obvious. "I'm a bard."
"I can see that." The man looks toward the stairs, where Geralt's accidentally-looming form has disappeared. "You're that witcher's bard, the- what do they call him?"
"You've heard of me." He can't help smiling.
"I've heard of him," the man corrects, which – okay, fair. "If you bring in a crowd, I'll throw in a meal on the house, hm?"
"And for him?"
The man considers a moment but acquiesces. "And for him. If you bring a crowd, mind. And nothing maudlin, we need a happy mood."
"Of course."
Bloody innkeepers thinking they know better than he does what makes a good performance. He trots up to the room mentally re-planning his set list.
The performance is going great. It's exactly what he needs to take his mind off the unwanted interloper of that afternoon. He tells himself it was an unfortunate coincidence – Mother was looking for a witcher and, thanks to Jaskier's efforts, Geralt is a famous one. That must be why she sent for him. There's no reason she has to know the traveling bard calling himself Buttercup is her youngest son.
He really believes it, up until the messenger walks into the Bored Child. Jaskier is a professional. He does not fumble, doesn't pause, doesn't miss a fucking beat, but he can't take his eyes off the awful blue and gold livery, the family crest he sees in his nightmares. He skips to the final verse; his mother's messenger is sitting across the table from Geralt and he desperately needs to interrupt before too much is said by either of them. He announces a short break and keeps his performer's grin as he stalks over to the table.
"Florian!" he says, clasping his shoulder. "Get fucked."
The messenger looks between him and his lute with understanding. Fuck.
"You're the White Wolf's bard," he gasps.
Jaskier pretends his heart isn't beating in his throat and gives Geralt a 'can you believe this guy?' look. "The man's clearly touched in the head."
"Hear him out, Jaskier," Geralt rumbles.
He wants to say no, wants to pitch a fit. Instead he sits down and tries not to make a scene. Maybe he can still get out of this without letting on what's wrong.
"Um, as I was saying," Florian stammers. "Uh, the Viscount de Lettenhove's been killed."
His heart leaps for an entirely different reason. "Finally?" He used to pray for that man's death whenever they went to Temple. Geralt kicks him under the table.
"It ate his eyes and tongue; cut off his hands and… you know… unmanned him."
Oh how fitting. How fucking fitting. His father divested of his lying tongue and wandering hands, lustful eyes and curséd prick. He can't help himself; Jaskier laughs. Geralt kicks him a bit harder this time. It's fair – he's being rude; he's being strange. He covers his mouth with his hand.
"You said there was news on the road," Geralt says to the messenger.
"Um, right. It happened again."
"Someone killed him again?" Geralt deadpans. And people say he doesn't have a sense of humor.
"The new viscount, his son." Lukast. "He was found this morning, same as his father." Interesting.
"Unmanned and all?"
"Uh, yes." Florian shifts awkwardly.
Good. Lukast wasn't his least favorite brother, but he wasn't a good person. He was, in the words of their Elder tutor, "a brute." And he only got worse as they got older.
"I've heard stories about them," he tells Geralt. "They're supposed to be rotten, the whole family. It's probably a serving girl sick of being beaten and raped." He hopes whoever it was is never caught. He hopes she enjoyed her revenge. "No great loss–" In fact, a boon for the world. "–and certainly not witcher business."
He's relieved when Geralt nods slightly.
"I'm inclined to agree," he says with a dismissive little wave at Florian. "Be gone."
Jaskier steals a swig from Geralt's tankard – which earns him a glare but no protest – before he gets back up to resume singing. He owes the room a few more songs, at least, before he stops to eat his dinner and get drunk out of his skull.
He drinks his fill and then he drinks some more, until the room is spinning and the tendrils of fear that have been wrapped around his heart since he first saw that crest again finally release his heart. Geralt practically pours him into bed at the end of the night.
"Boots off," his witcher says, but he doesn't wait for Jaskier to follow the order, just starts unlacing them himself. That's nice; he doesn't think his own fingers will work like that tonight.
"You're nice," he slurs, determined that Geralt know this. Geralt drops his boot on the ground and starts on the other one. "Wait, wait, my knife!"
Geralt heaves a sigh. "You're drunk. You'll hurt yourself."
Jaskier reaches out and opens and closes his hand in a universal gesture of "gimme." He gets another sigh but once both boots are off Geralt puts a sheathed blade into his hand. Safe. He clutches it to his chest like a child with a teddy bear and curls up on his side.
"Doublet?" Geralt asks.
Jaskier cracks an eye – when did he close them? "Bwah?"
"Do you want your doublet off?"
He is so incredibly patient. Jaskier likes that about him. He reaches for him, tries to pat his stubbled cheek. He nearly whacks him in the nose and has his wrist caught in a firm hand for his trouble.
"Jaskier. Doublet. Off?"
"Yeah, sure, yeah." He's not sure what he's agreeing to, but he lets Geralt sit him up. Oh, he's being undressed. Right. He's on a bed and Geralt's undressing him. Jaskier looks up into his beautiful golden eyes with a drunken parody of seduction. "Want me–" He hiccups. "–out of my clothes?"
Geralt strips him of his doublet and hangs it over the back of a chair. It's the red one he got while he was waiting for him in Ard Carraigh this past winter. Jaskier can't help the dopey smile that tugs his mouth upwards. Geralt had been so pleased to see him there when he returned from top secret witcher business in the Blue Mountains.
"Go to sleep, Jaskier," Geralt says.
"Oh. Good idea." Jaskier falls over onto the pillows. Geralt puts the chamber pot on the floor on his side of the bed – probably a good idea – and Jaskier doesn't protest when he's rolled onto his side. "G'night, G'ralt," he says when he feels the bed dip behind him as Geralt lays down.
"Go to sleep, Jaskier," Geralt says again.
When Jaskier slips into sleep, he doesn't dream.
"Where are you wintering?" Geralt asks him over a pint.
"I was hoping to stay in Ard Carraigh again. I liked–" 'that you found me so early in the season' "–Kaedwen." He sips his drink before he admits, "but the only place I've gotten an offer is Novigrad." It's on the coast, on the complete opposite side of the Continent from Geralt's winter home. He tells himself what he's really annoyed about is the lack of invitations elsewhere. He's starting to make a name for himself, the various minor courts of the Continent should be happy to have him.
"If you're going to Novigrad we should split at the Pontar," Geralt says. He's right, of course, it's already autumn and there's only so far they can go together before Jaskier's traveling in the opposite direction from where he needs to go. But just because he's right doesn't mean Jaskier has to like it.
"Give me a couple weeks, see if anything changes."
"You don't need my permission," Geralt says, reaffirming his place in Jaskier's poor, little heart. "Let's go to Vizima, see about the drowners. Easier for letters to find you there."
Their conversation is cut short by the arrival of an older man in blue and gold livery. It's been a week since they ran into the messenger from Lettenhove; now there's another one. Jaskier feels himself go very still, like a rabbit hoping it hasn't been spotted by a hawk or something. The simile is unimportant, the point is - the man sits down at their table and Jaskier feels like prey.
"I heard the White Wolf and his bard could be found in Dorian."
"I already turned down your lady," Geralt growls.
"I heard you turned down Lady Eleanor's man; I have not been sent by Lady Eleanor. Lady Ava said the bard would heed her call." The man looks smug, as if he already knows what the words will do to him.
Jaskier's heart skips a beat. Ava. He can see her smile in his mind's eye, the way the corners of her eyes crinkle when she laughs. It feels like he's had the wind knocked out of him. If he goes back he can see Ava again.
"Fuck."
He can't. It doesn't matter how badly he wants to see her again, if he returns to that horrible place he'll lose so much, too much. He worked so hard to get away. He's got a life now.
"Jaskier?" Geralt asks, startling him out of his thoughts.
Jaskier scowls at the messenger. "Lady Ava is concerned for her husband's safety, not her own," he tells himself. "I owe him no loyalty." He shoos the man with a little flap of his hand, clinging to imperiousness so as not to reveal vulnerability.
"She said there was a bouquet of forget-me-nots for you," the man says. Jaskier doesn't hear the rest; his blood rushing in his ears. When he was a child he passed messages in flowers that he couldn't say out loud. Forget-me-nots meant I'm in danger; I need your help.
He's not aware of getting up until he's already standing. He needs to pack; needs to plan. There must be a way to help her without putting himself in undue danger. He'll think of it, he's clever.
"Jaskier?"
"I leave at dawn," he says. His stomach is full of dread.
They're in bed, all the candles out. Thoughts of home weighing heavily on him, Jaskier can't bring himself to look at Geralt. He lays on the edge of the bed, as much space between them as possible, staring at the wall.
"Who's Lady Ava?" Geralt asks perfectly reasonably.
"She's…" 'The first woman I kissed. My best friend before you were my best friend. The person I thought I would marry when I was young and naive and thought that love was enough.' "We grew up together."
"And the flowers?"
He tries to keep his breathing even. He can't control his heartbeat, but he knows Geralt can hear it. He does everything he can to stay calm, hoping to fool the witcher's enhanced senses.
"Forget-me-nots?" he says with faux casualness. "What do you think? It's not subtle."
There's a pause. He hopes that's the end of the questions, but of course Geralt has one more.
"So you're from Lettenhove?"
Fucking Lettenhove. He can't believe he's planning on going back. He told himself when he left that he would never have to return. Just the thought of returning… he has to try very hard not to shudder – Geralt would notice that for sure.
Ava knows how much he hates that place, knows why, what they did to him. Not everything, but enough. She understands what she's asking of him. If she sent for him anyway then she's really in trouble.
Fuck.
In the morning Geralt is clear that he expects to come too and Jaskier should argue, he knows he should, but for whatever reason… he doesn't.
For the first time in at least a year, he loses time. He remembers leaving Dorian, walking beside Roach like always. Geralt's riding, which gives him too much space to slip into his thoughts. That's probably what does it; he gets lost in the spider-web of thoughts and memories and fears and dread and-
And then they're stopping to make camp and Geralt's giving him a concerned look.
"Are you sure you're alright?"
Jaskier banishes the dread to the back of his mind and makes himself smile, relaxed. "Sure I am, why wouldn't I be?" He's a performer, he's good at this. He can pretend to be okay for his friend.
Realistically, Geralt is going to find out sooner or later. He should probably hear it from him. But when Jaskier thinks about telling him, even just the bare bones of things he is allowed to talk about, his throat clenches. He doesn't want him to look at him differently.
Maybe it's not too late to send him away. He's not sure how to do that without telling him why he doesn't want him around – 'my family is horrible and I don't want you to see all the ways they hurt people, hurt me' – except by picking a fight. The thought isn't any more appealing than bringing him along, though. Once he goes home, he's not sure he's going to be allowed to leave. Selfishly, he doesn't want their last time traveling together to end in a fight. He likes Geralt, likes him too much, and he wants more time together.
"You don't talk about your home," Geralt observes.
Jaskier realizes he's just been standing there while Geralt gets the campsite together. He tries to shrug off the cold fear like a cloak and busies himself collecting firewood.
"There's nothing to tell," he lies. There's so much. He opens his mouth to say… something. Anything. He can't make the words come out.
"You don't have to," the witcher says with infinite patience, "but if you want to talk, you can."
He's so kind.
Jaskier swallows hard and nods. "Mhm. Yeah, I- thank you."
He still has a little of his preferred sleeping draught in his bag. He probably should have stocked up before they left the city but he didn't think of it, he hasn't needed it in a while. He doesn't like how it makes him feel in the mornings, groggy and too slow to wake, but tonight he knows he'll need it. They don't carry enough alcohol to keep him from dreaming, and if he spent all day dissociated he suspects he's looking at a night of bad dreams. Before he lays down he has a dose of the sleeping draught. He thinks he sees Geralt looking at him with a little frown but when he looks up he's busy sharpening his knives.
He needs to give Geralt a warning, at least give him a sense of what he's walking into. He's too chickenshit to do so. Jaskier decides to test the waters first.
"Lady Ava married the Viscount's third son," he says.
"How many sons are there?" Geralt asks from atop his horse, as he suspected he would.
"Seven."
"Hm," Geralt says in that Geralt way of his. "An auspicious number."
Jaskier's stomach sinks. "Don't tell me you believe in that shit." He kicks a rock as if it's the reason he feels like he's just been slapped. If Geralt believes it… "Why, is it true?"
"Aren't you the one who said there's a grain of truth in every fairytale?"
Shit.
If Jaskier tells him the prophecy, Geralt's going to believe it. He believes in things like capital-d Destiny; he should have known he'd believe in this.
"Is there truth in this one? I was sure it was an old wives' tale."
It can't be true, because if it's true then Jaskier really is destined to inherit, he really is going to be the last one standing, everything they thought about was true and-and-and-
He can't breathe.
"Debatable," Geralt says, somehow unaware of the panic rising in Jaskier's throat. "Probably a bit."
That settles it. He's going to have to tell Geralt eventually, but he's not going to do it any sooner than he has to. Jaskier gives himself one last day of Geralt not knowing what he's capital-d Destined to do.
"We should reach Lettenhove by morning," Geralt says. It's a casual observation to him. To Jaskier it feels like the date of his execution.
"Oh." He can't make himself say more than that. He's trying to gear himself up to tell him the truth – at least as much of it as he's allowed to say.
"That's the only thing you've said since we made camp."
Ironic, considering how little Geralt speaks most of the time.
"Oh," he says.
Geralt uses his own tactic against him. "Jaskier, I'm going to use your lute for target practice, alright?"
"I know what you're doing, you cad."
He pokes the fire with a stick just to have something to do. Geralt sits beside him and watches him, seemingly content to wait for him to become uncomfortable with the silence. He has to say something…
"I feel I should tell you," he starts, but then he trails off. He just has to do it. Just has to tell Geralt…
He opens his mouth but his vocal cords won't cooperate. It feels different from just not wanting to speak, this is magical. For the first time in – gods, he doesn't even know, maybe years – he's trying to talk about something against the Rules and fucking still the potion won't let him.
"Ava married my brother," he blurts out.
Geralt's eyes widen just slightly – his witcher is a man of subtle facial expressions – and he says, "The viscount was your father. The rumors of cruelty you mentioned?"
Of course that's the first thing he asks. Of course. Jaskier's heart clenches. He's going to miss this, the compassion.
"I left as soon as I could and I haven't been back since."
"Are you sure you want to go?" he asks and Jaskier almost laughs.
"No. But I owe Ava." 'I left her there.'
"I hope you're not putting yourself in harm's way," Geralt says, ever concerned.
He starts to say no but at the same time he wants to tell him the truth, compromises with, "Probably not."
Geralt gives him a sidelong glance. "That's not a no."
"We're going to look for whatever's picking off my brothers one by one," he deflects. "I think that counts as danger."
"But you'll tell me if you feel threatened?" Geralt persists.
And Jaskier tries to tell him, then, he does. His voice doesn't work. It's against the Rules.
"It's fine," he says instead. "Let's get some rest."
He drinks the last of his sleeping draught before Geralt can argue with him and crawls into his bedroll to pass out. He falls asleep with the feeling of Geralt's golden gaze still fixed on him.