SO we know that the songs in The Witcher (Netflix) are written to advance the plot in some way, such that there is something to be learned from the lyrics that we might not otherwise be told. As a fandom, for example, we have gotten a lot of mileage out of the I/you/she of Her Sweet Kiss.
So today I present for your consideration:
The Fishmonger's Daughter is Jaskier's origin story, and confirmation of Creature!Jaskier.
Allow me to itemize:
The fishmonger has a prodigiously horny daughter (who might therefore be expected to produce famously horny offspring)
A Puck's offspring can be expected to be "hairy" -- which Jaskier is, delightfully so, despite the shearing they gave him for the shirtless scene in S2 -- and also to "bleat and bray all day" -- a disparaging or self-deprecating way of describing what a bard does!
Alternatively, Jaskier himself is the Puck in question, since his is the "horn" the Fishmonger's daughter has a hunger to pull on, which he's warning against, so the reasons listed above
So either Jaskier is the child of a horny young merchant's daughter and a creature of the fae, or he *is* said creature of the fae, fending off (or not) the horny daughter. QED.
Okay okay okay... but hear me out. Jaskier is somehow half/a quarter of either of these creatures and he has NO idea. What a good fit!!! The music, the stringed instruments, the water, "they appear as lovely young men" LISTEN!!!!
PSA brought on by tonight's ask box sleepover: if anyone has any fae!Jaskier fic or art to share, hit me up! I wanna read/see it, especially if he has antlers or is on the creepy side. I love my little feral fae Jaskier with my whole heart 💟
With difficulty, Jaskier lifts his head, blinks away the blood stinging his eyes. That fucking face is looming over him again. Even when he closes his eyes he sees it sneering back at him now.
"Where," he says with his teeth, "is Geralt of Rivia?"
Jaskier coughs out a wet laugh. He can taste blood and bile at the back of his throat. "Haven't you been listening? I don't fucking know."
They've played this out enough times that Jaskier knows what's coming next. Still, he winces at the sharp snap of fingers, the flames too bright, too hot, in the cold and gloom of the tavern. Still he screams as the fire touches his skin.
He glares back at the dark, beady little eyes watching him too closely, his teeth clenched tight enough to crack, and he weathers the pain. A moment that feels as though a lifetime, and it will be over once again. He doesn't let himself think about how much shorter the stretches in between these moments are becoming.
It will be over soon, he tells himself. He can no longer feel his fingers. It will be over soon.
But this time, the fire keeps burning.
Jaskier's skin sears and blisters, the scent of burning flesh chokes him, and despite himself, Jaskier looks down. His hand is engulfed in the flames. He'll lose it entirely, this time.
You can still talk without a hand.
Even as his screams tear at his throat, Jaskier wonders what else he'll lose before the bastard realises he'll get nothing from Jaskier and finally puts an end to this.
The flames spread. Jaskier thrashes against his chair, body seizing. He can feel himself cracking apart. His veins are on fire, heat racing through him, consuming him from the inside out. Even the tears spilling down his cheeks burn his skin.
Jaskier screams until his throat gives out. He forces himself to meet those eyes again, one last time. Something flickers and shifts in them as they stare back at him.
Good, Jaskier thinks, as a desperate, defiant laugh erupts from somewhere within him. He thrusts his hand forward, the ropes around his wrist falling away, and his vision burns white around the edges. All he can see is the fire.
The screaming starts once again. It's a moment before Jaskier realises it isn't coming from him. His captor is on the ground at Jaskier's feet, clawing at his own face as the flames spread over his skin. He snaps his fingers once, and again, but the fire doesn't answer him now. It only burns.
"How do you fucking like it?" gasps Jaskier.
As the last of Jaskier's strength abandons him the flames die away, and the room is still, the only sounds Jaskier's ragged breathing and the screams still echoing in his ears.
"Jaskier."
He jolts at the voice and whirls around.
Yennefer is stood by the bar, staring back at him with wide eyes. "How the fuck did you do that?" she says.
Jaskier's gaze falls to his hand. The flames are still licking at his palm. It doesn't hurt, though. Not anymore.
"I don't know."
He curls his fist and the fire dies away, leaving only curling tendrils of smoke and the lingering, acrid stench of burnt skin in its wake. How he'll ever be able to smell anything else, Jaskier doesn't know. His hand is blistered and red, yet as he watches the burns shrink back and fade to nothing, until the only evidence of his ordeal is a faint pink mark on Jaskier's hand and the blood still dripping down his face.
"Come on," Yennefer says, snatching Jaskier's hand and tugging him away from the smouldering figure slumped on the ground. They burst out into the daylight, racing to put as much distance between them and the tavern as they can.
As they make their way through Oxenfurt's streets, Jaskier can feel the flames still simmering beneath his skin.
Warnings: graphic depictions of violence, death, semi-body horror/ disfigurement and unnatural horrors caused by magic.
Notes: And we’re back to horrible violence and creepy magic! Jaskier gets up to some violence and we support it but boy it ain’t pretty. Also a familiar face makes an appearance.
Read it on ao3!
or below;
Chapter Four: Two failed drownings and a display of horror
Jaskier emptied the tankard and motioned the bartender for a refill. The woman kindly didn’t comment to what must have been his second ale in a manner of minutes, simply raised an eyebrow that the bard valiantly ignored. He was trying to drown sorrows here, after all, there was a lot of ale needed for that. Still, he made a show of taking the next sip slower, tempering himself. The lady rolled her eyes, but Jaskier spied the twitching of her mouth.
If he hadn’t been terribly certain that the mountain of muscle at the other side of the bar was her husband he might have tried his chances. That was, of course, excluding the possibility of the husband being interested as well. He cast the mountain in question a look over the rim of his tankard. His biceps like thick logs out of his sleeveless shirt, shamelessly open at the neck where a thick black rug of hair seemed to be covering his chest. Mountain of a man indeed. And his wife wasn’t far from it either.
A stout woman with thick, strong arms and an equally inviting decolletage. She caught his eye and he winked, testing the waters. She rolled her eyes again and swatted at her husband's arm. Jaskier gulped as the man’s eyes, near hidden beneath bushy eyebrows, turned to him and he contemplated the nearest exit. To his delight, the mountain man's gaze travelled over him and then his mouth cracked into the most lovely, broad smile. Jaskier couldn’t help but smile back.
Perhaps he wouldn’t be drowning his sorrows in ale in particular tonight.
But the game still seemed to be on, the married mountains both looking away and continuing their work and Jaskier knew he too had more work before he could retire to anyone's bed. He had another set to play a little later on in the night, when the patrons of the establishment wouldn’t quite think of what he plays. Nothing but gaudy drinking songs usually, drunkards bawling along goodnaturedly.
If only they’d avoid the particular song that’d set his heart aching at the moment. Whyever had he written such a catchy song as ‘toss a coin to your witcher’? Everywhere he went it followed him, whether they recognized him as that same bard that wrote the damned thing or not. And without fail, every fucking time, his chest ached with that peculiar sort of longing mixed with bitterness, and a white mane and yellow eyes came to mind. Because of course, the song had his bloody name in it after all.
Jaskier took a big sip of his ale. Fucking Geralt. These feelings were inconvenient enough to get over without the constant reminder. How linked their lives had become to the general population. Jaskier might’ve had enough wishes for a lifetime but he was tempted to wish it all away. But better be careful, you never knew what someone like him wishing hard enough for things might lead to. He took another mouthful.
A shiver passed down Jaskier's spine. Unbidden, he straightened in his seat.
“Singer-”
His eyes went to the tavern door. It opened. Someone slunk in, head and back bent, one jittery hand moving up and down the sleeve of their jacket, the other deep in their pocket.
“from bloody birth to grave,”
He could hardly see their mouth moving. But he heard the words as if their lips were pressed against his ear. The ruckus of the room registrering almost distantly.
“through harsh times and victory,”
The figure stumbled in-between patrons, making their way to the bar.
“during the good years and the rot.”
They leaned against the bar, head still bent. Their hand escaped their pocket and Jaskier caught the glimpse of metal in the dim light. His eyes sought it like a magpie.
“Riser, be with me.”
Jaskier shook off a shiver, his eyes still glued to the hooded figure. It had been years since he had been summoned so clearly, so closely, desperately. Yes, the need for help was practically oozing off of this stranger. Begging, praying out into the seemingly indifferent cosmos.
Though of course, unbeknownst to them, there Jaskier stood. Fate was funny like that.
They repeated the prayer again. Jaskier had to shake his head to form clearer thoughts. It was a simpler version than last he’d heard it. But it was his prayer all the same. The Singer, the Riser.
The stranger dragged a hand over their face, their shoulders hitching. Jaskier realised with a frown that they must be stilling a sob. What was close to a paternal instinct forced his feet to move and he walked along the bar to stand next to them.
They cast him a glance, eyes glassy and cheeks wet, and Jaskier smiled kindly. The stranger simply stiffened and shifted away from him. Jaskier remained, looking them over. There seemed to be both rips, fresh as well as dried blood in their clothing, their cloak nearly dipped in mud. And taking a deep breath he could’ve sworn there was a faint trace of sulphur clinging to them.
The stranger, quite understandably perhaps, looked at him strangely.
“What the fuck do you want?”
Jaskier quirked an eyebrow. Then again, he didn’t quite look the part of a god, or whatever they were calling him. The stranger shifted away again and as they moved their hands across the bar, Jaskier moved.
He grasped their wrist firmly and their eyes lit up in an angry panic, already tugging at their limb.
“Fucking let-”
“I believe you called for me.”
The stranger silenced, looking at him as if he were mad and Jaskier nodded to his closed fist, gently letting go off his wrist. They opened their hand. An old, well worn amulet gleaming there invitingly, as if it recognized Jaskier’s presence. He liked to think it did anyway.
Their eyes went between his face and their palm, shock and disbelief clear on their face.
“That’s not possible.”
“You prayed for me, did you not?” Jaskier said with a smile. He took a sip from his tankard, chuckling to himself he added. “This used to be easier.”
“Wha- what-”
“I didn’t use to have to convince people of who I was. Then again-” he made a sweeping gesture to himself- “I don’t exactly look like someone you pray to at the moment.”
The stranger still looked sceptical. As if they were bracing themselves, they took a deep breath and leaned just the tiniest bit closer.
“Prove it.”
“And how do you suppose I do that in a tavern filled with people?” Jaskier replied, sweeping his arm around the space. He wasn’t about to reveal himself in here.
The stranger bent their head, looking defeated and unsure. They twisted the metal in-between their fingers.
“Singer-”
Jaskier snorted.
“I’m standing right here.”
The stranger's head whipped up from the trinket and though shock was still in command of their features, a slight inkling of hope made its way into their eyes.
“I-”
They opened and closed their mouth.
Jaskier let them take their time, casting an eye around the room. The bartender and her husband had thrown curious eyes his way ever since he’d gotten company and he gave them both his most winning smile. Despite their sceptical looks to his new companion they both smiled back. On Cycle’s roses, he hoped this wouldn’t take him too far away. They really were a handsome couple.
In front of him the stranger had gathered their courage and words.
“I’m- Can you help me? My name is Dibri. I-” they swallowed hard- “Men came to the house and they killed the master, sliced his throat to- There was so much blood. And then they took my mistress.” They hurried to add. “And her guest.”
Dibri, as apparently was their name, cast a watchful eye around the room.
“I don’t know what to do, who to ask for help. They killed so many at the house.” They shook their head. “My mistress is good to me. If there’s any chance she’s still alive I want to save her. I know where the men took her. I want to help.” They gave a decisive nod before looking back to Jaskier. “Will you help me?”
Jaskier cast a mournful eye along the bar and emptied his tankard. With a smile that caused the young Dibri to gulp, he leaned closer.
“Anything for a faithful believer.”
---
Dibri led him to the outskirts of a cave system. It had clearly been long inhabited. In fact, Jaskier had a vague memory of visiting it before, but that must have been long ago. He seemed to remember it being brighter, more colorful and filled with life. The sight before him was anything but.
The entrance, what had once been an archway lined and painted with geometrical carvings, had been damaged to merely hold its general shape. It looked like a wound in the rock, and the dark gaping hallway within, sparsely lit by torches, did nothing to alleviate a sense of doom. Beside him Dibri gulped audibly.
“So how do we do this?”
Jaskier smiled. They were very brave, but from experience he knew regular untrained humans would often just get in the way. He had, after all, no thought to go about this rescuing business mercifully. Blood would be sheed, and Dibri certainly didn’t need those memories. He turned to them.
“You are going to stay out here and keep a lookout. If anyone comes with reinforcements, you start praying your heart out and I’ll know.”
“But-”
“Trust me, Dibri. You’ve told me as much as you remembered about the men and that is valuable. You’ve done great. Now your only task is to keep watch and maybe help me out with the rescued when I return. Do you understand?”
Dibri nodded, already fiddling with the amulet. Jaskier gave him an encouraging smile and took a deep breath, turning to the opening. Excitement fizzed through his veins. A delighted feeling at the prospect of nourishing the earth and stretching his metaphorical legs. He’d worn his human guise far too frequently the past few decades. Jaskier started towards the entrance.
Just before it he turned and gave Dibri another smile. Perhaps it was more frightening than comforting. But his focus was set on the men in the caves and Jaskier let himself melt into the darkness.
He came upon the first few men not far from the entrance, in an offshoot room from the corridor, like maw to the rockside, they’d set up a small camp. Probably an attempt to guard for intruders. Jaskier stood in the corner of the room, near invisible as his shape blended in and out with the flickering flame of the fire. No one had noticed him yet. They wouldn’t get the chance to.
His magic moved like roots over the dirt floor, twisting green-blue and ruby red. Slowly they swirled up along the fives boots, paralyzing as they met skin. The hitching of their breaths, the second of panic in their eyes was all the sign they gave to an outsider’s eye that the magic had done its deed. Jaskier however, felt their power leave them, rushing into the ground and the mountain and in turn the earth sharing it back with him. He continued further in.
A second group perished just the same and a third fell to the cave's own revenge as it swallowed them into the stone. Then Jaskier rounded a corner and found himself face to face with two guards, standing at a lazy vigil next to a room opening. It took them less than a second to see him.
“Hey! Who the fuck are you?”
Jaskier raised his hands in faux-surrender and then with a smile let all his glamours fall. One of the men outright screamed and Jaskier was on him seconds later, hand squeezing his throat.
“Now that’s just rude.”
The second man found his footing enough to swing his sword at him but Jaskier moved like the flickering light, shifting in and out of solid form and slapped his hand onto the man’s shoulder. He shouted and stumbled forward. But his attacker was the least of his concerns now, falling to his knees whining and scratching at his shoulder.
As Jaskier cast an eye back, standing at the door now, he saw the man trying to cut off his own shoulder with the sword. Jaskier wished him luck, but that wouldn’t stop the rot. Nothing did.
The doors swung open at Jaskier’s command and he was met by a room of armed bandits. They had all heard the commotion and were heading for the door, weapons ready in their hands. Some of them were frozen stiff with the sight of him, some couldn’t help tears falling. In the following moment, when something came upon them to move towards the threat, Jaskier even heard a mad sort of laughter. His appearance did trigger all sorts after all.
He evaded the first few easily, spun around them and hit his palms over two of their heads. They turned, but by then their insides were already crumbling out of their eyes. There were many more still left and Jaskier sang smiling with his too wide smile.
The effects of his power hit them all simultaneously. Some falling to the ground, some merely stumbling, but the longer he sang, the more blood he spied behind hands kept desperately over ears to block the sound.
As Jaskier seized his tone, taking a breath to recharge, he felt the world spin somewhat. He’d have to work up his powers to their full potential again. This display was pathetic. But then again, worship was sparse and bloody sacrifices to the earth hard to explain. He snatched a still living man, young enough to be properly afraid, and pulled him in by hands that were far too long to be hands.
“Where are the prisoners?”
The young man’s eyes rolled back in his skull and Jaskier tossed the useless unconscious body aside. He moved forward, seeing a conscious man near him backing away, Jaskier pursued. The man’s back hit the wall, and to Jaskier’s delight, the man pissed himself in fear. He could smell it as Jaskier landed a hand on his chest, pushing hard. He wasn’t quite touching skin just yet. A near thing. A near end.
“Did you hear me? Where are your prisoners?”
“P-please-”
“Answer me and maybe I’ll let you live.”
The man closed his eyes and pointed left. Further along the wall was another opening, stairs barely visible in the sparse torchlight.
“Down there, to the right at the foot of the stairs.”
“Good.” Jaskier said, smiling. Before the man could react, he leaned forward and kissed his forehead. The man became even more terrified than before. As Jaskier moved away, he could already see his grey hairs turn brown. He turned his magic to a few who had risen, wiping blood from their necks as they raised swords against him. They fell with screams as red and blue-green mist found them, chasing its way into every orifice.
Jaskier felt some of his power waning but he still willed the shadows to move him quicker and he flickered forth down the stairs. Before he reached the end, he heard a babe cry from up above. Well, it wasn’t really a babe at all. He wondered if the spell would seize there. It wasn’t always a sure thing.
Jaskier stumbled suddenly, vague dizziness seizing him. He caught himself on the wall of the tunnel. Really, he’d thought the last monster he’d sent to the rot would’ve lasted him longer than this. He pressed his hand harder against the stone, a little intent and a message.
“Some help would be appreciated.”
The stone around him happily obliged and Jaskeir felt invigorated. He caught a message back. Though the rock couldn’t speak in words the intention was clear. An aid of power in exchange for an empty system. And as Jaskier knew the earth, he knew it would prefer if some humans went down with it. He would gladly see to that.
He straightened with a smile and continued down the corridor. Soon enough there were doors, the one lone guard standing there disposed of before he could utter a word. He heard movement in the cell. Then two voices sounded from inside. Dibri’s mistress and her guest, Jaskier supposed.
He took a step forward to talk to them, slipping into his human appearance to not frighten them, when he heard commotion down the stairs. If he wanted to get the prisoners out safely without risking them in his attacks, he’d better act quickly.
“Stand back!” He commanded, belatedly realising he should’ve used his human voice. He heard scurrying from inside and could only assume he’d been obeyed.
Magic rushed from his hand and the metal of the door - hinges, handle and bars alike - glowed like white hot steel. The wooden base of the door groaned from the heat where it met the metal. Then, a mere second later, it cracked and the door exploded out into the corridor. It made a hell of a lot of noise, and Jaskier threw his eyes in the direction of the stairs.
When no one moved to get out of the cell, he took a step closer. Something purple came flying out of the space and he jumped to the side. Magic? Dibri hadn’t said anything about magic. Soon a figure followed but she froze just as he had, her raven hair a messy bun and blood streaked across her face. Still, she was as beautiful as ever.
“Bard?” Yen asked in surprise. Behind her, a blonde woman, looking dignified despite the state of her, took a cautious step forward. Then came the commotion from the stairs.
Jaskier raised his hand and with a twitch of his wrist darkness swallowed that part of the corridor, soon followed by terrified screams. He turned his eyes back to Yennefer.
“Not quite.”
The disbelief struck over Yennefer’s face almost weighed up for the complications that would arise from this reveal. Almost.
---
He pushed them forwards, keeping the men behind him inside the cave system. Yennefer remained steadily silent, no more than two snarky comments were said his way, the mistress far more talkative, with her scared exclamations and worried questions. But Jaskier saw the calculating looks Yennefer gave him. She was biding her time. He wondered what made the top of her list. How he’d hidden it or if Geralt knew?
At last there was the opening. They all three gasped as the cool dark night seemed to hit them with force. Jaskier started looking around before a figure came bounding out of the bushes.
“Kaisa!”
Dibri nearly didn’t manage to stop before colliding with their mistress, hands immediately trailing their way over her looking for injury.
“Are you okay? Did they hurt you?”
To Jaskier’s surprise, the blonde woman threw her arms around Dibri, which was soon returned. They hardly looked shamefaced when meeting Jaskier’s eye so he applauded their scheme. Not everyone dared lie to someone like him about the nature of their relationship. And those two certainly were more than mistress and servant.
Dibri soon removed himself from the hug, keeping his eyes on Jaskier.
“I’m so grateful. I-” They floundered and as they did, Jaskier smiled.
“I’m not quite done yet.” He walked back towards the opening.
“Where are you going?” Yennefer called.
“I have a favor to repay!”
He walked in just past the opening and cladded himself in darkness and shadow. The gasps of Dibri and their lady barely registered behind him, but he knew that for them, the opening had just turned pitch black. He began to sing. Lilting lulling tones at first, urging sleep and rest.
Further down the corridor he saw figures go from running towards him screaming in rage to stumbling over their own feet. The very ground seemed to pull them down. The song continued. Ancient beyond hymns and as fundamental as sound itself. There were no words. Deeply buried roots tripped the stubbornly standing, bound them to the ground. A man on all fours reaching for him was the last one moving before Jaskier changed the tune. About depravity, about cruelty, pollution and sin. About the payment of it all like a curse. In due time the earth always demanded back what it had lost. So this then, Jaskier thought, shall be a sleeping tomb.
As he finished he felt gratitude echo from the rock and stone, an extra boost of power sink its way into his skin.
“No problem.” He whispered.
Jaskier turned and stepped out of the pitch black dark. Dibri drew what seemed to be a relieved breath and rushed forward. Their hands reached for him but aborted the movement just moments before. They gave a sheepish smile to his raised eyebrow, though he certainly didn’t blame them.
“We almost thought we’d lost you.”
Jaskier smiled at them and then slung an arm around their shoulder. To his relief they relaxed into it.
“Pfft. A couple bandits like that? They could never take me down.”
“Pray tell, what could?”
Jaskier closed his eyes. He’d almost forgotten about Yennefer. He sent a meaningful look Dibri’s way and then turned his face to her with a sharp smile.
“I wouldn’t know. Clearly nothing has managed that just yet.”
“I haven’t even tried.”
He grimaced and turned his focus back to Dibri.
“Walk with me, would you?”
He started leading them firmly back towards the path, effectively leaving the other two to scramble to follow. Jaskier leaned in closer.
“Listen. Don’t tell her who I am. She has only seen a glimpse of the truth and she doesn’t need more. That’ll only cause me trouble.” Dibri, the sweet pal, nodded eagerly and Jaskier continued. “This is what you can do for me as payment. Mouth shut.”
Dibri smiled at him and Jaskier couldn’t help but smile back. He liked this one.
“I promise.” They cast an eye to their shoes before looking back to Jaskier’s face. “I’m very grateful for you help, as I said, but-” they fiddled with something in their hand before opening it, showing him the little amulet- “will you be wanting this back now?”
Jaskier couldn’t quite contain his surprise. He smiled gently and stopped their walking. Carefully he sealed Dibri’s hand back around the precious trinket.
“No, of course not. You repay me by mere belief, Dibri. That’s all I require. You can use it again.” He cast a quick look back toward where the two women were catching up and added, leaning in to quietly whisper. “And I’m far easier to summon if you bury it in good soil and sing the prayer instead.” At Dibri’s momentary disbelief Jaskier gave their hands a final squeeze and started stepping back. “I promise, works a charm.”
Dibri smiled and Jaskier took it as his que.
He slipped into the shadows, delighting in Yennefer’s face of dismay.
Maybe he could make his way back to the tavern. The bartender and her husband might be up for helping him celebrate this victory.
---
Geralt stared deep into his tankard and forced himself to think of repetitive things. Relaying the roof of the stables piece by piece. It kept his mind off certain things. At least it was supposed to. But colorful doublets and revealing black dresses both made appearances in his mind and he sighed through his nose, reaching for a refill.
Beside him Eskel huffed a breath of amusement.
Geralt looked at him, the grinning fool, and then followed his eyes to Lambert, sitting on the opposite side of the table. Lambert was sitting in an over exaggerated slouch, back bent, elbows on the table and then he sighed theatrically loud and reached for the jug and a refill.
Geralt gave him an unimpressed look. Lambert broke his imitation with a broad grin and swung out his arms.
“Come on! What horror of a monster stole your white haired shrivelled up balls and your awful humor too?” He shared a look with Eskel, who for once responded in kind, and if the two of them were cooperating, Geralt knew for sure he was in some deep shit. Geralt reached for the vodka instead and Eskel pulled it out of his reach.
“I can’t believe I’m agreeing with the balding jokester-”
“Fuck off!”
“-but you’re worse than you were when Roach number… whatever, kicked you in the crotch.”
Geralt punched his arm and grabbed for the vodka as he twitched but Eskel pushed the jug over the table into Lambert’s waiting hands.
“The stiff cock is right on the money, you white oaf. Now-” he patted Geralt’s hand, still reaching for the vodka- “tell auntie Lambert of your woes.”
Geralt responded instead by stomping on Lambert’s foot and successfully grabbing the jug back. He poured himself half a tankard before setting the jug possessively on his other side, between himself and Vesemir, who were only paying them half a mind, eyes shifting from them to his book.
“Fuck off the both of you. You’d be about as helpful as a naiad in the desert. It’s nothing.”
Lambert rolled his eyes and Eskel huffed again, less amused this time.
Geralt focused back on his tankard. Another sip and focusing on the mild burn the vodka left in his mouth. Maybe he’d get horribly drunk, that might stop him from remembering or regretting. Of course, he wasn’t so lucky as to be left to drink himself to death.
“How is that bard of yours? Jaskier? Did you manage to make up with him this year?”
Vesemir’s words hit Geralt like a wyvern’s tail, reading him as easily as one of his books.
Geralt wasn’t altogether certain he hadn’t flinched as they were spoken, or that his eyes hadn’t fluttered shut at the sound of his bard’s name, bringing to the forefront of his mind how he had very much failed in finding Jaskier at all.
That was the great trouble of wintering in the Keep, Geralt knew, it left him with far too much time to think and in turn, regret. That which was far easier to forget about and push aside whence out on the Path.
He started chugging the tankard. Emptying it, he put it down with a thud that echoed through the room. Then Geralt stood, face as stone cold as he could manage.
“He is not my bard, Vesemir.”
“So that’s a no for a mended friendship with buttercup then.”
Geralt didn’t even respond with a scornful look Lambert’s way. He simply walked out of the hall. Something probably needed mending.
