Jaskier has walked years, decades upon the Continent, has seen empires rise and fall, seen the terror reigned upon innocents and the weak, has seen the ugly and the beauty, has fallen in and out of love with everything and everyone because nothing ever lasts, finding ethereal prettiness in the littlest things—in delicate flowers, wild streams, the red of a woman’s lips, the grin of a proud knight, the words of a ballad, notes of a strum, passion in a touch—
But nothing in his long lifespan could have ever prepared him for the sight of kind violet.
The most gorgeous pair of eyes he’s ever seen, the shy softness in her gaze as he ambles away from the centre of town after singing his heart out in possibly the worst tavern he’s been in, wandering to the backend of a dirty rundown farm. He’s startled by her sudden presence as she creeps out of the pig farm but—
He feels his heart tumble, rolling out of his chest and splaying over his sleeves, strings of pretty poetry spinning around his head, falling all over in love once again—
This time, he’s down on his knees for pools of amethysts and her wary kindness.
He finds out about her sharp tongue, quick as lightning when he’s struck by her clever sarcasm, but it’s a terrible shame when she cowers right after—afraid of the consequences of what she’d said. And he melts further.
He finds out about her gentleness when he offers to help her tend to the pigs, sees how softly she whispers sweet nothings to them, hears how hard she laughs when he makes a dramatic scene of the stained mud on his breeches. And he falls harder.
He finds out about her father, how the bruises on her arms don’t appear out of nowhere.
She doesn’t fall to his whims as easily as anyone else he’s fallen for, and he can see why—clear in the way she flinches when he moves a little too quick, in the way her glare wavers at his compliments, in how she strays far away from everyone else in the village, like a dirty secret hidden away.
It’s utterly heartbreaking.
But sometimes it has its perks. Hidden away and forgotten means that Jaskier can whisk her away further off to the edge of the woods, strumming his lute as he composes his first song of her, sitting cross-legged—something in Jaskier aches at the distance between them—as she stares up into the twinkling night sky. His first song is not terrible, but he wishes he’s able to sing out the jumbled mess his thoughts of her become; he finds it difficult to.
“No one has ever written a song for me before.”
“I’m quite honoured to be the first, then.”
Her sharp wary eyes melt into sweet plums under the blanket of the dark sky, and she whispers a prayer—she wants to leave but she’s terrified, this life of hurt and rejected kindness all she’s ever known—and he can’t find it within himself to leave yet.
Jaskier knows he shouldn't—because this long travelling life isn’t suited for a human like her (or rather the three-thirds human part of her)—but he promises. He promises to take her away to the edges of the earth, show her the wonders he’s seen, the beauties he’s met. And Yennefer, dear heart of hers, agrees, something glinting in her eye that spears through Jaskier’s gut, leaving behind hot coals of temptation.
But then everything goes too far. He sees how hard her father shoves her into the mud when she spilled a bucket of feed, and he was about to race over there to put an end to it—
He tastes the magic in the air, feels it thrum through his aged body like an instrument calling for its player and it’s her, it’s her chaos and—
And he’s never felt so tempted, so utterly enthralled—
He doesn’t hesitate to whip out his silver dagger, digging until it reaches the hilt.
Silver for monsters, they say.
Violet eyes catch the glint of shiny crimson when he pulls the blade out. And he grins, looking over at her.
Days, weeks, months of the road does absolute wonders to Yennefer. Her wariness melted away to become a familiar fondness, her bites of reluctant jibes sharpen into tantalisingly clever wit, and Jaskier—
Jaskier has never been more proud of the woman she’s become.
She’s swift and brilliant, but gentle and kind when she wants to be. Her heart is more open than he’s ever seen. She’s keen when Jaskier shares his poetry (whether it be a lazy line of inspiration or a ballad of her violet eyes), and she’s eagerly inquisitive when he tells her about her budding magic.
There’s nothing he can quite do in that department, afraid that he might do wrong with her unbridled power—but he doesn’t smother her either. She gets stronger everyday, and Jaskier does nothing but support and protect her at every step of their journey.
Nearly every line of poetry is tinged by her, lamenting of the hidden beauty by his side. Jaskier has heard of artists with breath-taking muses, ones who they would never part with because they’re an unlimited source of inspiration. Jaskier thought it was utter horseshit.
Now, though, maybe not so much.
He sings oh so many songs of her. He sings of lilac precious stones, eyes so beautiful yet hidden so deeply. He sings of a clever tongue and a cracked heart so vast. He sings of her smile, her smirk, her gentle touches, her ferocious strength. He dances in taverns, strumming his lute as he tells of a strong beauty like no other, his heart bursting at the seams when he winks her way from across the room.
No one could ever guess that the woman of his stolen affections is right in the room with them, hunched over and watching the little bard perform. They would never guess it’s her because they never take a second glance past her askew jaw and back, missing those loving amethysts as they follow a dancing bard.
Jaskier has always showered her with the love he knows his heart is capable of, pouring over her with affection. But he never once pushes, never once takes away her choice when she wants to take the steep step further.
But when she does, Jaskier can only resist so much before he falls to his haunches and worships every inch of her body. They don’t have sex—they make love.
And it fills Jaskier up with blooming light, every fibre of his being getting caressed by her chaos, every brush of skin alighting his senses with fire and Gods—
Precious, powerful Yennefer.
He’s never seen such a beautiful sight.
He can smell the power from a mile away, groundbreakingly strong but controlled.
Even though he knows she was coming, there was nothing the both of them could do—with Yennefer’s magic or no. They try to run but the mage’s portals allow her to chase after them till the ends of the earth.
She was ruthless, tearing Yennefer away from Jaskier’s hands without hesitation, brutally ripping a tethered unit apart. The bard found himself at the butt of a spell, powerful enough to even take down a being like him—
Yennefer’s scream is the last thing he hears before he slips into darkness.
Jaskier knows where she is, that blasted mage school, but there’s no way he’ll ever be able to bypass every ward and mage that stands in his way.
He travels the road alone, after the painfully short years of having such a treasured companion. All he has now is silence and the crunching of dead leaves under his feet.
The pain of losing a beloved hangs over him like a heavy cloud, pangs of hurt hitting him in the middle of day without rhyme or reason—worse when he turns around, hoping to meet pools of violet and a biting comment, only to see dead trees and the cold loneliness breaching through his soul.
And so he weeps. He sings for the taverns.
He dreams of the colour of dusk and the headiness of her power. He marvels at her strength and her softness. He drinks in the echo of her curious touches, her passion so so selfish but Jaskier wants nothing but to give and give and give—
He knows she’s powerful. She knows of her magic and that’s already a step up of the other young mages under tutelage in Aretuza. She doesn’t know what she’s capable of… yet.
But he hopes she realises quick, otherwise she’ll never leave the cold stone hallways and colder gazes of witches and sorcerers.
He wonders if Yennefer knows he’s not human. It was never brought up. But now that guilt is heavy in his chest. He fears for Yennefer’s bright heart, for it may diminish if she thinks him dead.
Grief is a consuming thing.
He just hopes Yennefer isn’t as in love with him as he is with her.
He travels alone for a long time, but the colour violet plagues him like a scar, thickened by torn skin and never invisible, no matter how much time it’s been since he last heard her voice.
He composes, he entertains, he loves fast though not as hard. He takes and gives, runs away from scorned lovers and leaps into his temptations, giving into spending his coin for jewels and gold and fine silk to adorn his skin until he runs empty.
He’s in Posada, singing an admittedly very uninspired song, pelted by bread and cheese. He sees a shadow of darkness but somewhere in there, sees a glint of white.
His curiosity is piqued and he can’t help staring a moment longer.
He sinks into melted honey and—
His heart tumbles and spills and bursts red over both his sleeves like it did back those years ago—
Jaskier has learned one thing in the century he’s lived: the heart wants what the heart wants.
Geralt is… an enigma. In all the opposite ways Yennefer was. But when Jaskier takes a step back, he’s breathless over the startling similarities his travel companions have.
Geralt is tough and gruff around the edges, unwilling to bend to anyone’s whim—unless it’s a child, or a tortured soul, or a hunted misunderstood monster.
Yennefer is cunning and exceptional and strong to the point she doesn’t let anything get under her skin, unwilling to bend to anyone’s (but sometimes Jaskier’s) whim—unless it’s a child, or tortured soul, or a hunted misunderstood monster.
Jaskier falls hard for that type, apparently.
Jaskier’s adventures with Geralt are admittedly more dangerous and inspiring than his mindless journey around the Continent with Yennefer was, but they’re…
Uninspiring in other ways.
With Yennefer, he always found the beauty in everything he sees and he was always so eager to share it with her. The young woman never failed to enjoy his little rambles, humouring him and learning of all the joys in the world.
With Geralt, on the other hand, he feels almost stifled under the lack of romance. The Witcher is silent and usually standoffish whenever Jaskier wants to share his own view of the colourful world they live in. It’s discouraging for his hopeless romantic heart, but he learns of invaluable tales of a misunderstood creed of protectors—the middle man between human and monster.
He supposes the insults and the golden glares make it a little harder for him to fall—which is a good thing.
But then Geralt has to go ahead and save his life multiple times, save countless others and still ask for nothing but coin in return—sometimes even nothing.
He’s never quite heard of a love story between a bard and a Witcher. He might write it someday.
Geralt is stupid. Utterly, profanely stupid. If Yennefer was here, she’d be absolutely scandalised yet entertained by Geralt’s dumb actions.
The Witcher now has a child.
Jaskier sighs and lets his friend run out of Cintra with his tail between his legs, praying to the Gods above that destiny would rope them a little earlier than scheduled.
He knows how Geralt can get—thoughts tied and tongue tied tighter, frustration pent up over his own actions.
Jaskier wishes he can help, but he doubts Geralt would appreciate his useless advice.
Destiny did heed his prayer. Jaskier meets Geralt not long after that fuck of a mess.
But the man is tired, oh so tired, angry and upset and a ball of sleep-deprived stress that it twists Jaskier’s weak heart.
Really? That’s the best the Witcher could think of?
Jaskier, not for the first time, wishes for Yennefer to be here. He knows how easily her soothing magic melding into his mind can put him to sleep. It’s one of the tricks Yen learned on her own.
He rambles and tells Geralt about his own exploits and—okay, rude
It’s not like he hasn’t been insulted for his singing before but he—he thought Geralt…
Well, it shouldn’t matter. The Witcher is exhausted and he’s just saying things he doesn’t mean.
Jaskier is worried of course, but even that worry doesn’t kill the spike of anger when Geralt tries to take the very, very dangerous amphora away from him—djinns don’t spell anything but bad fortune.
He’s lived long enough to see their sadistic mischief in action. He doesn’t want to see it inflicted on Geralt.
But then they’re yelling, arguing and then there’s a storm, rumbling and spiking with magic and—Jaskier
Everything is a blur, pain choking his senses to dullness. He can’t even enjoy the feel of Geralt’s muscled back against his front when they ride to Rinde. Geralt is worried—clear in the way his fingers would dig into Jaskier’s skin like he’d be taken away.
There’s a mage in town, apparently. Jaskier just hopes they’re competent enough. He’d rather not lose his voice, thank you very much.
It’s clear the said mage took over the castle when he has the unfortunate pleasure of seeing the mayor of Rinde naked and dazed. He shares Geralt confusion and subtle disgust but they move on, getting closer and closer to the urgently needed cure of Jaskier’s predicament.
He feels the thrum of magic in the air, powerful, and smells the sudden burst of lilac and gooseberries, which only get stronger when they enter the threshold of a…
Well, Jaskier’s life can’t get any stranger if he wanted it to.
Smooth planes of skin writhe against each other, moans dancing in the air as Geralt and Jaskier stand uncomfortably in the middle of an orgy room.
They share another exasperated look, both just wanting to get this over and done with. Geralt none too gently places him down on an already occupied chaise lounge, and Jaskier can only grimace through the feel of breasts on the back of his head and the searing pain of his throat.
He watches Geralt as he approaches the end of the room, at which a mage sits upon another chaise, looking bored and utterly beautiful. A mage with magicked beauty, the likes of which Jaskier is beyond used to. Her gorgeous black dress does wonders for her features, all smooth and curvy and ethereal, reminding Jaskier of a goddess.
“I, uh. I brought you apple juice.”
Her velvety voice rings in his ears, and Jaskier frowns to himself. That voice—
“You’re immune.” She’s observant, Jaskier will give her that. He rarely ever deals with sorcerers and mages, considering the lot of them are entitled, egomaniacs. They have their uses from time to time, but some of them are just more trouble than they’re worth. But still, that voice is hauntingly familiar. It twists something in his chest, his heart racing a little faster.
“Yennefer of Vengerberg.”
The sharp pain in his throat is nothing—
Compared to the deafening roaring of his the hope in his chest.
The woman—fuck, fuck, it can’t be Yen, can it?—puts her goblet down and eyes Geralt with what Jaskier can only describe as curious hunger.
A little closer, Jaskier can see the sharp contrast of her sinful red lips, looking utterly divine and—
his breaths going harsh—feeling like someone just pulled out his shattered heart and plunged it back into his slashed throat.
Oh Gods, he’s never wanted his voice more than ever—he wants to call out her name, tasting the familiar syllables on his tongue he hasn’t uttered in years—
Those gleaming violet eyes make the earth shatter around him, the heavens opening up as years of memories start pouring back in, remembering just how easily he fell and caved at those breath-taking amethysts, just realising his scar never quite healed over.
Bollocks. This is not how he’d imagine meeting his first ever true love again. After all these years.
Sparkling violet on cornflower blue, and the bard wants nothing but to melt into her familiar embrace.
And at the widening of her eyes and the slight gape of her pretty lips—
Jaskier can only lazily wave a hand, a meek silent ‘hello’ after their estranged years.
“Ragamuffin!” Her voice cuts through the air with startling coldness, the buttery silkiness of her voice gone. The people in the room snap out of her spell, and even though they all start rushing out, none of them are as hurried as Yennefer when she strides across the room to reach him, shouldering past Geralt without a care.
She kneels between his knees, crowding his space. He’s quickly enveloped by lilac and gooseberries and her tempered chaos—simmering underneath the faux guise of indifference. Her gentle hands hover carefully over his skin, grazing every part of him, violet eyes wide and deep and gods—
Does Jaskier want nothing else but to leap back into those pools of purple.
He finds himself gripping her wrists tight within his hands, thumbs pressing over her thumping pulse to remind that yes, yes—
She’s alive. And she’s still as utterly enthralling as she was when they first met.
There’s a sheen over her worried eyes, her gentle magic caressing his thoughts, hearing him despite the silence.
He tries to talk, but Gods, does it hurt. He tries and tries, and manages a small strangled croak of, “Yen—”
“Shh, shh, bard. Don’t speak. It’ll only hurt more.”
He feels his eyes sting, heart leaping and crying in joy as he is once again reunited with his most beloved muse, and some part of him weeps in hysteria when he sees the same emotion reflected in her features.
She waves a hand over his throat, and her eyes go dark. “Djinn magic.”
Jaskier meekly nods, cracking and choking, damn near shivering in her presence.
His throat tingles, and sharp pain reaches past his throat and stabbing down his gullet.
His eyes go wide with panic. It’s spreading.
Yennefer’s lips purse into a grim line, and she says, so softly only for him, “I’ll put you to sleep.”
Jaskier’s eyes go only wider, but it seems she has read his mind because an echo of her voice rattles in his head.
I’ll still be here when you wake up. I promise.
The tightness of his frown conveys what he wants to say.
You weren’t there the last time.
Yennefer only looks sad, eyes going dull. She leans up and the last thing he feels before he slips into blackness is her lips on his forehead.
“He’s in a deep healing sleep,” she announces, feeling haggard and exhausted. Not because of the magic she used, but rather because of the image of Jaskier lying perfectly still on her bed, unmoving and silent. It’s probably going to be engraved in her head—just like the image of his still body when Tissaia knocked him out to take her to Aretuza.
Jaskier is never silent, never still. He’s a constant flurry of excitable motion and lovable spills of poetry when he rambles. It’s just a fact of life.
It’s illogical, inconceivable that Jaskier wouldn’t be talking or singing her ear off as he drags her into a meadow of flowers to dance freely. She can still hear their intertwined laughter when he twirled her in his arms, graceful and lithe and young as they fell into a soft bed of lilacs.
Something buried, hidden for years, rears its head and twists her heart.
“How long will he sleep for?” The Witcher asks, the lines of concern taut in his muscles.
“Long enough for you to bathe.” She plops down the stack of clothing across the table.
“How’d you—” The Witcher raises a brow, faintly amused. “Right. Magic.”
She barely twitches a smile.
“How do you know him?” she asks, sounding as bored as she can make herself to be.
Geralt grimaces, something twisting in his features as a thought crosses through his mind.
“He’s…” Yennefer cocks a brow. “We met. A long time ago.”
Yennefer eyes him, something hot sliding between her rib-cage.
The Witcher hums, the same glint in his golden eyes as he eyes her back. They’re sizing each other up, and they both know it.
Yennefer knows not of the travels her bard has made in the time they spent away from each other, but a small part of her hopes that he still holds a torch for her—no matter how dim.
Being away from the best thing in her life drained so much out of her—her life, her light, her capability to keep a big heart vulnerable. Years at Aretuza and decades in a court have jaded the way she used to look at life—or rather, the way Jaskier looked at life.
Everything the bard touched brightened with love and life, and that included Yennefer. It’s only reasonable the longer she went without him, the blacker the abyss in her became.
But when she saw the skies, those bright blue eyes over the sweaty bodies of enchanted people—she felt like she could see through the darkness.
She felt like a young girl again, lying under the stars with her bard in the forest, quietly listening to his sweet ballads dedicated to her.
Jaskier was the only person in the whole Continent who loved her for everything she has, for little pieces of herself that even she hated—he adored every aspect of her.
It’s a love so many people search to the ends of the Continent to find. And yet he stumbled upon her one day with prayers of her violet eyes and softness of a besotted man, despite her being covered in mud and pig feed.
And she’d be damned to let him slip through her grasp again.
Though, she does admit playing with the Witcher is entertaining, if a little grating.
“Fishing for a djinn seems an extreme measure to remedy sleepiness,” she says, staring down at him as he sits alone in the tub.
“When extreme measures seem reasonable, yes, I’m desperate.”
“And yet, you didn’t ask me to help with that.”
“Looming death kind of jumped the queue.”
Her jaw clenches for a moment, fingers stilling. Jaskier still, Jaskier silent, Jaskier’s blood, Jaskier’s wounds—
“Now I’m wondering if I can afford you. Have I accidentally agreed to indentured servitude?”
Yennefer forces the power in her fingers to recede, her magic acting on much baser emotional whims—which hasn’t happened in quite a while.
“Just take it as… protecting a mutual friend,” she says, lips lifting into a grin when she sees his shoulders tense up once again.
“You keep saying you know him. How?”
She lays across the bearing of the tub, limbs melting letting herself fall into the pit of treasured memories she hasn’t indulged herself in reminiscing for a long, long time.
“We… met. A long time ago,” she chuckles, repeating his earlier words. “Practically a different life back then.”
“And you’re awfully nosy.” She throws the edge of her dress over her thighs, letting the cloth slip over her skin.
She’s struck by an early memory, tinged by wistfulness. A memory of a bard’s hands as they massaged the mud out of her raven locks, muttering loving compliments of her beauty. It was when they first ran away from her home and around the time it dawned on her she’ll have to depend on another man, someone who has her life in his hands.
She remembers how harsh her rebuttals were, still wary of how Jaskier would treat her, if he would change his mind and throw her to the mud like everyone else did; of his pained whines and how he clarified she was free to go wherever she wanted, but promised he’d never leave if she wanted him.
She remembers of the mischief in his smile when he first spent his earned coin on silk drapes, on a silver star pendant necklace, on expensive furs that cost more than all the pigs in her father’s farm; of the stunned gaze locked on hers when she was covered in the lavish fabrics and jewels.
He was also the catalyst to her discovery of her love for the finer things in life.
“Wouldn’t the bard have told you? You are friends.”
The Witcher sighs, an unidentifiable note in his voice, “For all that he talks, he hasn’t ever told me about a mage. Especially someone like you. Doubt he’d have forgotten about you.”
Yennefer can’t stop the soft smile gracing her lips. “He hasn’t changed, has he?”
Geralt glances over. “Still annoyingly bright and cheery, an awful practical travel companion. Endearing in his own way. Still singing and spouting pretty little words from that—”
She leans closer to stare at Geralt, a knowing, challenging glint in her eye.
His temples pop, his brows furrow and the slightest downturn of his lips give him away.
“You’re not the only one who’s fallen for his charms, Witcher,” she says flatly, teasing note now gone.
Geralt frowns deeper, now realizing the prospect of her’s and Jaskier’s past secret relationship—something he has no right to butt into.
She hasn’t seen him in decades, and she’d be hard-pressed to let anyone tear her bard away from her ever again.
The thin layer of arousal around them dissipates immediately, both now facing each other with renewed scrutiny.
Yennefer is the first to break the silence.
“I see it in you. He’s touched you too, hasn’t he?”
Geralt grimaces, mouth opening for a rebuttal, but Yennefer cuts in.
“Not like that. Though, I am quite surprised you haven’t taken your chance.” Yennefer leans back, regarding him with sharpness.
“No. I’m talking about how Jaskier makes you feel things you never thought possible. How he chips away at you slowly and opens you up to be painfully vulnerable and bare for the whole world to see and yet—”
She brushes her knuckles under her chin, tilting her head thoughtfully. “—still protects you to the last inch of his life, because he knows out of all people, how hard it is—” She grins sharply, “—to love.”
The White Wolf’s eyes are a blazing yellow, glaring heated holes into Yennefer’s cold stones of amethysts.
She stands abruptly, disregarding her previous plan to join him in the bath. She feels antsy the longer she’s without her bard.
“Do clean up. You reek of horse.”
His skin is as supple and young as the day they parted. Yennefer hadn’t known he wasn’t human.
But for all those years alone, in Aretuza and Aedirn, she was often trapped in the darker recesses of her mind, wondering how much of time she’d have left before he dies of old age. Humans are ticking clocks, and she’d always feared she would be a little too late to reach before the ding.
But now, with his hand in hers, chest lifting with every breath he took, showing youth and life and just—Jaskier.
He had swept her off her feet back then, practically a knight in silky doublets with a bloody silver dagger as his sword. They made a pair traveling the Continent, exploring every place they could, despite the struggle of coin and sometimes food—even in those times, they still had each other.
But then Tissaia happened, the witch who took her family away, who ripped an unbreakable bond apart. Yennefer had never felt such unbridled anger before. It had felt like lava was leaking out of her pores, and the only ways she could release her frustration was through magic and vigorous training.
She never forgot those loving eyes, so blue it would blind Yennefer, reminding her of the sky and the sun in the spring. She never forgot how the bard showed her love and taught her how to love back. She never forgot every song he ever wrote for her, the melodies and sweet lyrics being her only friends in Aretuza.
Jaskier is the only person who ever gave her the time of day, who ever paid attention to her not because of her deformities, but because of the beauty in it, in her.
It’s a gift he bestowed upon her that she can never quite repay back. And it’s clear she’s not the only one who has it. Golden eyes come to mind.
Her fingers brush against his cheek, stubble greeting the pads of her fingers. They drift over to the top of his head, running through his soft, soft chestnut locks. Gods, she missed him.
She inhales, scents the light spray of seawater and pine, and feels the idle quiet thrum of her magic mingling with his—an eager response of two souls reunited.
She gently thumbs the edge of his lips and quietly sighs.
A hand wraps around her wrist.
“Going to kiss me already? Without a hello?” he croaks out. A swift breath is pushed out of Yennefer.
Blue, blue, wide skies meet the dark violet precious stones unearthed from the ground. And her world is right again.
“Yennefer,” he whispers, cracked voice barely carrying over to her. His fingers are locked around her wrists, but she doesn’t fight against it, only melts into it.
“My bard. I’ve missed you so.“
