Imagine if Geralt and Yennefer left Ciri and Jaskier alone to go get supplies. And Ciri had the brilliant idea to try out this spell in the book Yennefer gave her, that would allow her to switch hair colors with Jaskier, so that neither would look so noticeable and they could maybe all go into the next town together.
The spell doesn’t end up switching their hair colors.
No, instead, Jaskier blinks, surprised to find the world a fair bit bigger than it was before, his hands smaller, and wow, he feels pretty great, actually—
Which he immediately feels poorly about when he sees that the person standing across from him—in his body—has to be none other than—
“How do you—Jaskier, why does everything hurt?!” Jaskier—Ciri—whines, using his voice, which is—
Ciri plops to the ground, instantly breathing a sigh of relief at giving her aching feet a rest. And yeah, fair, because Jaskier did in fact want to do that most nights, had done that most nights, back before the mountain. Before he'd realized being a bard didn't mean he had to be so dramatic all the time, and that everyone would appreciate if he would just...tone everything down.
"Sorry about that," Jaskier says, wincing when his voice comes out higher than he was used to. "It shouldn't be for long, though. Hopefully Yennefer—"
"No!" Ciri shouts emphatically, sitting up with wide eyes. "I wasn't even supposed to be practicing without her here, and if she finds out what happened, she'll never let me go anywhere again!" She exclaims, arms pinwheeling.
"Please, Jaskier, just—we can pretend, right? Just for a week, while my—your—powers recharge." She suggests, giving Jaskier his own puppy dog eyes, which, honestly doesn't do much for him for the obvious reasons. Seemingly sensing this, she wilts a bit, adding, " And then you can try it, say the words and everything, and if it doesn't work, then...then, we can get Yennefer involved."
Jaskier stares at the girl—man—and winces. It was one thing for him to take the princess's place, to pretend for the next seven days that he was the pseudo-daughter of Geralt and Yennefer. But to have her take his role, too...
"Ciri, this isn't a good idea. You don't—I don't—"
Jaskier's mouth slams shut as Ciri hisses at him, and the bard realizes that Yennefer and Geralt have just stepped through the sound and visual wards the mage had put up before the pair left. He takes in Ciri's wide, pleading eyes, and sighs a bit under his breath. Then he nods, finding little comfort in the look of pure relief the girl gives him, which is quickly masked as Geralt and Yennefer come into the small clearing.
Taking one final second to collect himself, he turns around with a small smile on his face.
This was going to be disastrous.
In Ciri's defense, she did a lot better than the bard had thought she would, truthfully. She didn't complain about not being able to ride Roach like usual, or the thinner, scratchy bedroll, or even the fact that she now had a two or three hour shift at night where she was meant to watch for danger. It was, truthfully, rather impressive, even if Jaskier was helping her out by insisting they take more breaks throughout the week and sharing more of his food with her when Geralt and Yennefer weren't looking. Every time he helped her, though, she gave him and the others a look he couldn't quite decipher, beyond it not being a very happy one.
Still, Jaskier should have known his luck wouldn't hold. The bard used up all his luck in large, miraculous events every few years or so, and payed for it, it seemed, with the worst luck known to man the rest of the time. Which is why, on the fifth day of being in Ciri's body, he was horrified to find that they were surrounded by bandits, and Geralt and Yennefer had placed themselves between him and the threat. It was their usual formation when facing trouble, but the problem was now—
Jaskier curses as he ducks under Geralt's arm, grabbing a large stick as he races to Ciri's side, where she was trying to hold off two larger, burly men with the singular dagger Jaskier owned. He raises the branch as high as he can, using the element of surprise to bludgeon one of the men, sending him unconscious to the forest floor at the same moment Ciri manages to fatally stab the other attacker.
For a moment, their eyes dart wildly around the small battlefield, only breathing a sigh of relief when they realize Geralt was swiftly dealing with the last man. And then, Jaskier finds himself with his arms full of—well, himself, which would honestly never not be weird—rubbing Ciri's back in a smooth, repetitive manner as she breaths harshly. He was tempted to pull back, to check if she had any injuries he hadn't seen, but she seemed okay.
Still, this whole mess had gone on long enough. He opens his mouth, about to insist she tell the other two what had happened—
Jaskier blinks as Ciri finally lets him go with one last deep inhalation. He stares at Yennefer for a moment, trying to figure out—
"You don't—you leave the fighting to the adults." Geralt says, voice low in his reprimand, which—oh. Right.
Jaskier swallows, nodding, which seemed to ease the tension in both Yennefer and Geralt as they both quickly inspected him for injuries. This was normal, and—and Jaskier could pretend for a couple more days, he decides reluctantly as Yennefer fussed over the small scrapes in his hands from holding too tightly to the wood. The odds of there being two groups of bandits in the same area were low, and this particular forest didn't have many monsters in it as far as he could remember, so—
Jaskier stares as Ciri swears, loudly, a long sentence or two that was, honestly, just pure filth. There were words in there he was pretty sure he'd never actually used before, which he found rather impressive, truthfully. He'd have to ask her where—
"Jaskier and I accidentally switched bodies five days ago," Ciri says, once she was apparently done with swearing.
And—yeah, okay, Jaskier supposes almost dying would put certain things like youthful pride and being grounded into perspective. Jaskier carefully disentangles himself from a now-frozen Yennefer and Geralt as Ciri speaks about what happened, and why they hadn't told either of them the truth. He links his arm with Ciri in silent support as she explains, proud of her for not only admitting to her mistake but also being willing to accept whatever punishment they saw fit to give her.
"Ciri, while you should have respected my instruction—" Yennefer turns her eyes to Jaskier, then, expression going noticeably colder. "It was Jaskier's job to ensure you obeyed it. He is the adult in this situation, not you."
Jaskier does his best not to wince under her ire, to shrink in on himself—
"No." Ciri hisses, voice suddenly much firmer and angrier than it was only a second ago. "You don't get to talk to him like that, to—to—"
And then, of all things, the former princess of Cintra growls.
"I have spent the last five days living as Jaskier, and I can honestly say that if I were him, I'd have sold you both out to Nilfgaard ages ago."
Geralt and Yennefer flinch, hard. Even Jaskier baulks at her words, wondering what on earth she was—
"You don't let him a ride on either of the horses, even though Yennefer and I could easily give him a turn—"Ciri says, holding up a finger. "Not to mention you make him keep watch at night, and then don't let him have a rest on one of the horses like Yennefer does. And you don't—"
"—you don't give him enough food, either." Ciri continues, electing to ignore Jaskier tugging at his own doublet to get her to stop as she holds up a third finger. "You give him the smallest portion of all of us, even though he spends the whole day walking!" She practically shrieks, and then—as if her words weren't bad enough—
"Look!" She cries, holding up Jaskier's chemise to show off his visible ribs. "It's like a wolf in his stomach, constantly gnawing away! It would make it impossible to sleep, if every day wasn't so incredibly exhausting." Ciri says, voice suddenly infused with the kind of bone-deep weariness that spoke of days, weeks, perhaps even months or years in the making.
Yet somehow, she finds the energy to stand tall, hands fisted as she says, "then you don't even defend him. When he's exhausted, and hungry, and thirsty more often than not, too, in case I didn't mention that. No, instead you both crowd around—well, around me, and expect the human bard to somehow defend himself with—with this!" Ciri shrieks, holding up the small, still-bloodied dagger.
There was complete silence for a moment, as Ciri breaths heavily, no one willing to interrupt her if she wasn't finished.
Finally, Ciri says, voice suddenly defeated, "and I never knew. I never noticed, the way you—the way we—treat him. It's not—I can't—"
Jaskier steps forward and pulls Ciri into a tight hug before he even realizes he is moving, the instinct to protect-comfort-soothe a strong pull he doesn't even try to resist. He lets her head rest on top of his own, ignoring how strange it felt to be hugging himself.
"Ciri, it's not...I'm okay. Really," he insists quietly, running his hands through the long brown strands. "I'm an adult. I don't—"
"If we hadn't switched bodies, you would have died today, Jaskier." Ciri says, voice choked as she bites back a sob.
Jaskier swallows hard, not sure what he could say to that. "I'm a better fighter than I seem," he comments lightly, trying to ease her guilt and pain. "Really. Why, there was this one time—"
Jaskier bites his lip as something close to a whine comes from Ciri's—from his mouth, a sound he vaguely recognizes as one from those long nights spent alone after the dragon hunt. It was a wounded sort of noise, and not one Jaskier would ever make willingly in front of anyone else, if it was still him in his own body.
It doesn't surprise him to find two extra pairs of arms loop around Ciri, then, to try to offer whatever silent comfort they could. They stand there long enough for the birds to begin chirping again, for the smell of iron in the air to fade some despite the bodies still on the ground.
