Julian Alfred Pankratz, master of the seven liberal arts
The seven liberal arts: seven subjects from classical antiquity believed to be the foundation of wisdom and moral excellence.
Grammar, or the structural constraints of language
“And so cried the witcher, he can’t be bleat?” Geralt’s nose scrunches up. “What is that even supposed to mean?”
“It’s evocative,” Jaskier objects, pouting.
“It’s bloody nonsense,” Geralt grouses.
Jaskier scoffs. Geralt never did understand imagery.
Rhetoric, or the art of persuasion through words
“Toss a coin to your witcher, o valley of plenty!”
Jaskier is bored to tears with this gods-forsaken song and Geralt has always hated it. All the same, Jaskier makes a point of singing it at every tavern he stops in because by the end of the chorus his lute case is always heavy with coin.
And gods know they could both use a hot bath and a good meal.
Logic, or reasoned argumentation between opposing viewpoints
The barkeep’s face pulls into a sneer the moment he catches sight of Geralt. “We don’t want your type in here,” he snarls.
“Your type?” Jaskier’s eyes narrow to angry slits. “What exactly is that supposed to mean?”
“You know what I mean,” the barkeep spits. “He’s barely human.”
“Why don’t you go fuck yourself?” Jaskier bellows, launching himself bodily over the bar.
Before his hands can close satisfyingly around the smug arsehole’s throat, however, he is brought up short by a firm grip around the back of his neck.
“Not now, Jaskier,” Geralt grumbles, hauling him away from the bar and out into the street.
Arithmetic, or the study of numbers
“Well.” Jaskier empties his coin purse onto the inn table. “I’ve got five Orens, a lot of fluff and, for some reason, a single Mariborian crown.”
Geralt grimaces. “I’ve got seven Orens from that drowner contract last week.”
“Looks like we’ll be sharing a bed tonight then.” Jaskier shrugs. It’s a simple matter of economy. And if he isn’t exactly opposed to the idea, no one needs to know.
Geralt’s face does something which isn’t strictly a smile. “Fine. But if you get fidgety in the night, I’m lying on you.”
Jaskier isn’t exactly opposed to that, either.
Geometry, or the properties of shape, size, and distance
“Love is like a pear,” Jaskier muses, tapping his quill against his lips.
Geralt doesn’t look up from sharpening his swords.
“A pear is sweet and has a distinct shape,” Jaskier expounds, warming up to his theme. And then the flourish of genius: “Try to define the shape of a pear.”
Geralt grunts. “It’s fucking pear shaped, Jaskier.”
Alas, the depths of Jaskier’s artistic musings are entirely lost on his current audience.
Music, or the arrangement of sounds into pleasing forms
Geralt twitches, his skin sickly white, his eyes blown wide and surrounded by black veins but seeing nothing. Jaskier has cleaned his wounds as best he can, and now there is nothing left for either of them to do but wait for the potions’ effects to run their course.
It’s always like this after a difficult hunt, and Jaskier has learned both how he can assist and the limitations of what help he can provide. He settles Geralt on a bedroll and draws a blanket over him, then grabs his lute and perches on a nearby tree stump.
He plays quietly, barely more than tapping against the strings, creating a gentle melody which undulates back and forth like the swell of waves onto a calm shore.
The lullaby drifts through the night, soft and soothing, and some of the tension seems to seep from Geralt’s jaw as he drifts off to sleep.
Astronomy, or the study of heavenly bodies
“That’s the Hunter, right there.” Jaskier points to the seven-star constellation visible to the east. “And there,” he moves his hand across the sky toward the west, “there’s his prey, the Stag.”
“An endless pursuit,” Geralt says, voice softened by the impressive quantity of mead they’d worked through. He shuffles closer, resting his head on Jaskier’s thigh as they stare up at the clear sky and its blanket of stars above. “Always linked yet forever held at a distance.”
Jaskier unthinkingly cards his fingers through Geralt’s hair. It must be the warmth of the summer evening, or maybe all that mead, but Geralt doesn’t pull away. Instead he hums, quiet and relaxed.
“I like to think they’ll meet one day,” Jaskier says, hovering perilously close to veracity. “They’ll be together eventually.” Geralt’s hair weaves silver bands around his fingers. “When the stars align.”
yousharknotpass
kaledo-art
baratheonpilled
stormborns
izzy806
prguitarman
gummygunk
ellievsbear
