Good evening lovelies. This piece is for @thewitcherbog The horror and the Wild themed week!
And this idea has been sneaking around my head in different shapes and finally it took this form.
It just might get more installations.... possibly... it is 1.30 am right now, which it always is when I'm writing for some reason, so we will see tomorrow...
Anyway, please enjoy <3
Warnings: vauge description of injuries.. uh. that would be it?
On Ao3 here
Jaskier is a young god.
Young in the way only a god can be.
He left his mother and father, left their grove of birch trees, traveling between stock and stem with the breeze of the wind. He roams the lands, climbs the mountains, counts each grain of sand on the beach.
He watches the sirens dance across the sky, water droplets shining like falling stars on their bodies. He watches the fiend nurse its young, he watches the moon travel across a clear blue sky and watches the eclipse taint the sky red.
It is only now that Jaskier feels drawn to a solid form. He tries on different lives, wanting to know what it feels like. He tries on the scales of a fish, the feathers of winged beasts. He tries the paws of a wolf and the antlers of a moose.
He finds himself returning to shapes with antlers most often. That is when he first meets the witcher.
The night was dark, the moon barely a sliver in the sky.
A man lies on the moss, white hair stained and dried to his face with crusted blood. Shivers run through his body, and he whimpers, pressing a hand to his side.
“Please,” he pants when Jaskier approaches, his hoofs barely making any sound. It surprises him that he was noticed.
When he listens again, ear twitching, he realizes the man is unconscious. Carefully he approaches, nosing at the crown of his head. Something smells wrong about him.
“Please,” the man pants again, his fingers curling in the moss.
Is he begging for life? Death? Does he know himself?
Jaskier looks around, finding a bloodied sword a distance away, and among the trees a horse. He looks to her for guidance.
Her feelings are fascinating to him. Fierce and loyal and angry and lonely. And scared. She is scared of the loneliness, of losing the human on the ground.
Jaskier wanted to tilt his head, but he learned that with heavy antlers, it takes practice. And this form is new to him yet, so instead he blinks and turns back towards the man.
Hoofs are useless when tending to wounds. Paws won’t do well here either, nor claws.
The human form is not something he has tried before, but Jaskier will not shy away from a challenge. His skin changes, his fur draws back. Well, most of it. He has seen humans with hair almost as thick as fur, and he is reluctant to part from it.
When his form resembles who lies before him, Jaskier kneels. His knees are bare, the moss cold against his skin.
Gently, he drags his fingers over the man's face, bloody strands of hair revealing a pale face and black veins. Humans usually don't look like this. His mother would scold him for his curiosity, for his carelessness, but he can’t help himself.
Jaskier turns the man to his back and puts his own hand over the gloved, bloodied one. He is not supposed to do this, not supposed to interfere, but behind him the horse is approaching and watching his every move.
Blood feels strange on human skin. He has hunted before, killed before, but he never tried healing. The medallion around the man’s neck hums when Jaskier’s essence leaks out of him, blends into the human’s blood.
No. Not human. Not entirely.
And now even less so, when a shimmer of sunlight on the waves spreads through his veins. It’s nothing more than a droplet, and it travels through the body of the man until it finds its way back to his fingertips and back into him.
Jaskier feels different now, a small part of him changed as he changed the other. It’s not unpleasant, but it is unfamiliar in a way he is not used to. A body can be new, but this is something else. His hand remains over the unconscious man, their fingers fitting together, much like the seams of the glove. One thread hangs limply down, and Jaskier picks at it distractedly.
He remembers himself when the horse snorts loudly behind him, spraying his bare back with the contents of her nose.
“Thank you,” he says to her, this language foreign on this tongue.
Oh. Human speech must be different from the whispers of birchs and leaves. Her lips twitch with amusement, so Jaskier thinks she understands either way.
“I must leave you now,” Jaskier tells her. The horse disagrees and Jaskier smirks, standing up. “He will wake soon. Don’t worry, I won’t be far.”
He looks down on the man in the moss. He is still pale, white as the sliver of the pale moon in the far above sky. But the bleeding is stopped, his breathing is even, and in that small part of Jaskier, the part that traveled, that feels so foreign, calls for their joining once more.
No.
“My friend, I beg you, carry a burden for me?” Jaskier asks the horse. She says nothing, as horses rarely do, but she waits.
He approaches her, calling forth the foreign part of him.
“As he is yours, I am his, but this calling is not for me. Would you carry it for me and stay by his side?”
The drop that is not him anymore, the drop that is now someone else. He puts it on his lips, feeling them tingle. Her silent acceptance makes him approach, and he touches her lips to her forehead.
The piece of him and of the man leaves him, and she shudders with the weight of their lives merging with hers.
“I thank you, my friend. Keep us safe. May you be safe on your travels.”
He leaves then. His fingers become hoofs once more, his head heavy with antlers and his fur rich and warm. Leaving a part of himself with them is dangerous, he knows, but he doesn’t have the time. He has a world to explore, through shapes and forms.
What was unfamiliar to him was the depth of her emotions.
It was pointed out to me (by me) that most gods know each other and Jaskier, after achieving god status, would end up meeting the other gods. So I guess here’s something for that??
Also on AO3
Jaskier is following Vesemir around his little town in Kaedwen when a tug in his form makes him turn his head. Usually this means a direction to go in, a Witcher who needs help. He gives a goodbye to Vesemir by putting a hand on his shoulder, which with his accumulated strength, Vesemir notices the friendly pat. “Didn’t know you were here, Jaskier.” Jaskier doesn’t hear much of it, focused on the pull. It’s from the fountain, he realizes, and leans into the tug with a smile, closing his eyes and manifesting there instead.
“Oh!” Jaskier sees a woman looking into the fountain, a hand on the edge. He wonders why he was pulled here. The woman is aged, dressed in robes. They are elegant and they suit her well. Perhaps it’s the material of her robe she wants to look nicer? Jaskier hasn’t quite gotten the hand of turning other metals pure, but the gold trimming seems simple enough. “Alright, let’s see here,” Jaskier leans in to brush his hand over her robes—
“Don’t touch me, boy-god.” She barks. Jaskier reels, leaning away. The woman turns, and suddenly she’s staring at Jaskier— her eyes are a fiery shade of pink. Jaskier clears his throat.
“You’re a mage, then?” He asks. The woman scoffs.
“How did a ghost go about gaining a following large enough to become a god?” She asks, running her hand over the silver fountain. Jaskier chuckles nervously.
“I’m not sure I understand it either,” he admits. He looks over the woman’s features, and his eyes widen. He recognizes the symbol on her earrings from decades in his lifetime, from years of muttering her name in frustration or fear or exasperation. “Forgive me if I’m wrong my dear, but you are a mage, right? I’ve been dead for a few years now, but I’m quite new to this.” The woman laughs, and Jaskier can hear so many sounds inside of it— it makes his head spin.
“Stupid boy-god,” she tuts, and Jaskier has just enough self-respect to not react— “You know who I am.” Jaskier feels like he’s trembling in his metaphysical but stylish boots.
“Melitele.” The woman smiles at him. “But... I’ve never seen another... how— why...” Jaskier has so many wuestions, and Melitele’s wizened face offers wisdom.
“The others ones call me Mother,” she says. “Though you’re an unusual one, aren’t you, boy-god?” Melitele holds a regal air to her that makes Jaskier want to fall at her feet. “You ought to as well. Easier to fit in.” Jaskier tilts his head slightly as a question.
“Fit in? Who am I fitting in with? Er, mother.” He adds when she raises a brow.
“The other gods, of course,” she says, like it’s obvious. “You’ll have to now. They should find you soon, if they aren’t too busy stirring up more trouble in the south.” Jaskier still feels floored by the interaction. It must be his human instincts, but he wants to impress, wants to grovel, wants to please her and worship at her feet. “Yes, I think they’ll be along shortly. You haven’t quite gained the power to see them yet, but it comes with time and worship.” It answers some of Jaskier’s unsaid questions at least. Why he looks young to Yennefer again, how he’s gained power over the years. Jaskier wants to learn more, and his hand itches for a notebook— Can gods write?
“I have so many questions,” Jaskier says honestly. Melitele puts a hand on his face, and it is a comfort he didn’t expect to want, the simplicity of touch from someone who sees you. Maybe he’s been a ghost for too long.
“You’ll learn with time,” she assures, and lowers her hand. Jaskier feels a pull suddenly, a faint tug from somewhere far away. A Witcher needs help. “Looks like you’re needed,” she says before Jaskier can apologize for leaving. Her pink eyes are burning a little brighter.. “Go on, boy-god.” For the first time since his death, Jaskier feels seen. He feels acknowledged, that what he’s doing is worth it. He nearly laughs, realizing this must be what the people he helps feel like. Recognized. Valued. But necessary.
“Goodbye, mother,” Jaskier says, giving a little bow.
“I’m never far, boy-god,” she scoffs. Jaskier doesn’t really get what that means, but he’s not really thinking about that, he’s too focused on finding Coën by the sea, where he is struggling with a siren.
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
Summary:
Jaskier is the first one to die. This isn’t surprising in the least, the agreed-upon time of his mortal body over, sharp at fifty years of age. Not a day more, not a day less. The exact hour he was born as a human in this world fifty years ago. Even the weather is the same as that day, rainy, autumnal and warm. No doubt his father’s doing.
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
Chapters: 1/1
Fandom: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion/Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg
Characters: Jaskier | Dandelion, Melitele (The Witcher), Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg, Cirilla Fiona Elen Riannon
Additional Tags: god jaskier, Immortal Jaskier | Dandelion, Non-Human Jaskier | Dandelion, Winter, Self-Hatred, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Identity Reveal, geraskefer, Secrets, BAMF Jaskier | Dandelion, Witchers Have Feelings (The Witcher), Melitele is the best wingman, Sibling Jealousy, Self-Worth Issues, Flowers, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, a bit of angst, Freeform, Declarations Of Love, No beta we die like melitele's patience
Summary:
He’s born the last of his siblings.
His first breath chills the air around him, his first cry starts the first snow the Continent has ever seen and his first laugh freezes the Yaruga to her core. And so it does to the Pontar and all the rivers in the land. Even the north sea that lies below what will in the distant future be the kingdoms of Kovir and Poviss gets its own layer of ice.
His mother creates a flower for him and calls him Snowdrop. The flower will bloom amidst the heavy snow.
