So i got Skellige feels. So so so much Skellige feels, and @jaskierswolf asked me about it and then @kuripon had to deal with all 1800 words of it. Thank you for that <3
Please enjoy this little loveletter to the rough islands in the sea, that I need to explore so much more. And the yearning and pining. All of it. <3
on Ao3 here
The coast has so many things to offer. Sand, cliffs, gravel, pebbles. Shells, shards, rocks, scattered greens, and life. So much life.
You just need to know where to look. Jaskier knows where to look. Or at least, now he does.
Skellige is a new world to him, bright and colorful and raging and stillness and sound. He had dreamed of getting away for a while, and now he is oh-so-far away.
The jarl greeted him warmly when he stepped into his halls. A fresh wind to his own minstrels, he had called it, and so his time one the isles had begun.
It wasn't an easy transition. The land wasn't what he was used to, the people weren't what he was used to; it was a steep cliff to climb. Jaskier took to one of the minstrels in particular, Egil, and looked to him to learn the way of this new land, their songs, their words.
The spring days morphed into summer, the storms calming, soothed by the longer days, gentler nights.
Jaskier spent a lot of time by the water. There was a particular nook he kept returning to, where he could gaze over the open water, no land in sight. Sometimes he saw shapes in the distance, wings and tails and heard their splashes as they dived back into the deep.
Sirens were not as he imagined them, but he admired them all the same.
Too careful of his lute, Jaskier borrowed one of the smaller lyres to bring with him where he sat. Its frame is not as sensitive to the whims of the sea, not as easily broken by the salt.
He would sit in the sun, pluck on the strings, and sing. The sunlight warmed the rocks underneath him, and he felt... at peace.
Egil sometimes brought his children, and they would jump and climb together between the rocks. His youngest, Eileen, would hold Jaskier's hand, guide him to a nook between rocks, and show him the hidden world within. Seaweed, crabs, little trapped shrimps. There they would stay until the tide came again, she told him, picking up one of the crabs effortlessly, despite its pincers reaching for her.
Its shell is dark green and yellow, specks of gold hidden where claws of hungry birds fail to catch it.
There is life everywhere, and now Jaskier's eyes are open.
The clever language is rough on his tongue. It takes time and practice, and the Jarl's many sons laugh as he tries out their swears. That, he got a hang of fairly quickly and creatively, to all of their delight.
But wanderlust burns in his veins, and as the steward's son sets out towards the northern villages to deliver a letter, Jaskier tags along.
He is put on the back of one of their sturdy horses, wide and shaggy. They have yet to shed their thick winter fur, used to the whims of the land.
The steward's son, Bjenry, asks for every tale Jaskier has to tell of the lands across the sea. In turn, Jaskier asks for the legends, the dreams and the fears of his people. He learns of the cyclops, he learns of the wraiths and the ghosts. The ice trolls are no surprise, and he gets to meet them, barely getting away with his life, as they rush through the mountain pass and out of harm's way.
There was a time when he would make these travels with someone else.
Someone with white hair and eyes like the setting sun.
Someone who would huff a laugh when Jaskier was too busy admiring the world, that he would stumble into a puddle of mud. Someone who would offer up his bedroll when his own got stolen by Godlings. Someone who... someone who left him, far above the world, with words poisonous on his tongue.
Jaskier tries not to think about him.
He tries to think about the rippling streams and creaks, brimming with water from the melting snow on top of the mountains. He tries to think of the beautiful flowers, blooming in scarce land. Of the birds' song mixing with the sirens in the distance. It is beautiful and jarring, how they harmonize.
Bjenry leads him through villages, some barely more than five houses on the other side of a bridge. Some of them are abandoned, some of them filled with geese and screaming children and doting parents and hardened warriors. Bjenry leads him by the pearl diver's hut, and points out the lighthouse at the edge of the cliff.
They reach their destination after long travels. At their arrival, Bjenry is instantly pulled away by a girl with thick braids and thick arms. He knows the glint in his eyes, knows now why he offered to make the trip.
Jaskier sings in the local tavern and with the enthusiastic help of a few drunkards, he learns a new shanty. Oh he can't wait to sing that to-.... He will sing that right now, until the words work with his tongue, until they get sick of him, until his voice gives out.
Come morn, his throat is sore, his head aches, and his heart is heavy.
This village is too far inland, so there is no raging sea to find comfort in.
The smith brings him to a small forest, sits him down on a log to listen to nature.
She kisses him there, her skin rough but her touch gentle.
When they return to the village, Bjenry is sitting in the grass, watching as their horses graze on the lush field.
Summers are so much richer in Skellige than he had ever imagined.
A huddle of children gathers around Bjenry, begging for tales from the Jarl's keep.
As Bjenry talks, the children pick up flowers and weeds, making crude crowns and bouquets. Jaskier sits down with them, first listening and watching, and then being put to work by a fierce little boy who wants a warrior's braid.
They spend a few days in that village until duties call them back.
Jaskier asks Bjenry for help, because he doesn't remember the Skellige word for wind.
"Which one do you want?" Bjenry laughs. "We got so many."
When the song of the kissing smith in the woods is done, when the braid of a warrior is made into words, Jaskier sings it the best he can. The language is still foreign to him, but Bjenry lights up when he hears it. His voice echoes between the stones, making Jaskier stop in wonder.
Then Bjenry sings.
The song is meant to be sung with the echoes, The Choir of the Lonely Man, he names it.
When they stop for the night, Jaskier cries up at the stars, and the steward's son pretends not to notice.
Returning home is odd.
Home, as he has come to think of it. The Jarl is out to deal with raiders, so there is little work for him come evenings.
Once again, Jaskier finds himself with a lyre on the sun-warmed cliffs, the waves spraying salty droplets on his skin.
This time, he is quiet. This time, the lyre rests next to him.
Eileen finds him, takes off her shoes, and dips her feet into the cold water.
She tells him of the whale she saw, and how her brother can sound exactly like one. When Jaskier tries it, laughter bubbles out of her, soft cheeks crinkling with mirth.
Jaskier smiles too, and plaits her a warrior's braid.
The jarl returns home, and Jaskier is put to work again. Every night, the hall is filled with songs, Egil and the others still teaching him the rhythms in their blood.
At the end of the night, Egil returns to his wife's arms, and Jaskier burns with longing.
Longs and aches and hurts for what he has denied himself even in his dreams. Dreams he left behind long before he was left on a mountain.
Again, he cries at the night sky, daring to traverse the cliffs in the darkness.
The tears are as salty as the sea, but burn in contrast to its icy cold.
Jaskier finds peace.
He learns to live with it. They celebrate the union of Bjenry and his bride from the north.
In the feast that follows, Jaskier doesn't play. He dances, he smiles and laughs, and he drinks a fisherman under the table.
The merriment continues long into the night and into the early hours of the morning.
It is afternoon when Jaskier wakes up, a hangover back to greet him like an old friend.
In the Jarl's hall, he sips his ale and nurses the headache that is loath to let him go.
When the door opens, Jaskier's solemn thoughts are put to a halt by ale deciding to come out of his nose.
His eyes sting, there is a little foam on his upper lip, he is wheezing for breath, and one of the Jarl's sons pat his back slightly too hard as he coughs.
But someone he knows is coming through that door.
Someone with white hair and eyes as the setting sun. Someone who drags him up when he has fallen into the swamp, someone who fends off the wolves when they come running.
Someone who left him, and who wished to never see him again.
Geralt is carrying the head of a water hag, so clearly he's been here before.
Jaskier coughs and blinks away the sting in his eyes, gods, ale does not taste as good through the nose.
He watches Geralt close the deal, purposely not looking his way, ignoring his very existence.
Geralt knows he is here then.
And as soon as the deal is closed and his Witcher is paid, Geralt turns to his bard.
Because there is no other way to describe what they have, is there? Jaskier is his bard, and Geralt is his Witcher.
Geralt stops in front of his table, looking down on him, and Jaskier’s heart sings again. It is a little broken, a little painful, but oh, how it sings.
“I have been looking for you.”
“You found me.”
“You weren’t on the coast.”
“Wrong coast, darling.”
And just like that, Geralt sits down at his table. An ale is brought forth, and Jaskier relearns what Geralt’s voice sounds like, what his hand feels like, what his teasing smirk does to his heart. If he thought he came home before, it is nothing like what it feels like right now. They are so far away from where they used to be, from who they used to be. But they are still the same, aren't they?
Geralt finds that hole in his heart, that place that he claimed as his and his alone, and opens it wide, making room for himself.
And Jaskier lets him. Can’t take his eyes off of him.
Jaskier learns new things too. What Geralt’s voice sounds like when he is whispering sweet nothings into his ear, what his hands feels like on his skin and over his heart, what confessions that teasing smirk can coax out from his lips.
Jaskier has been found, and been found anew. And by the way Geralt holds on to him that night, and that morning, Jaskier feels like he won’t get lost again.
Honestly now, watching the Gameplay of Assassin's Creed Valhalla makes me feel like I'm playing through the Witcher 3, doing quests on the Skellige Isles.
The music and sounds give me such good sensations as if it sends me there, in that world. And when it all gives me chills, well, it's a good sign that the waiting will be worth it.
