Visiting Marilka - Chapter 4
Dec. 6th, 2021 02:39 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
gwyllionTitle: Visiting Marilka
Author: gwyllion
Genre: Canon era
Pairing: Geralt of Rivia | Geralt z Rivii/Jaskier |Dandelion
Rating: R
Words: 57,262
Warnings: Brief mention of sexual desires by an underaged minor character. Genderfluid minor character.
A/N: Visiting Marilka was written for the 2021 Witcher Big Bang. Thanks to my artist, Rogue Pyrola whose awesome artwork can be seen below, seren and the Witcher Big Bang mod team, and my wonderful beta Gillian who always makes my writing better. Thanks to The Witcher’s author, showrunners, and actors, (especially Mia McKenna-Bruce!), who inspire us to make more art.
This fic is dedicated to Nathan, who conceived it to be so.
Disclaimer: I did not create these characters. No disrespect intended. No profit desired, only muses.
Comments: Comments are welcome anytime, thanks so much for reading!
“What did he say about your sister?” Geralt asked, as the western route from Troy took them toward Roggeveen.
The road widened as it wandered through the lowlands on its approach to the coast. The meadowgrass had turned mostly to hay already and the rich scent captured Roach’s attention.
“What’s that?” Jaskier asked, pausing the strumming on his lute. He had been playing the instrument from the time they broke camp at the outskirts of Troy. He explained that he liked to stay in practice in case the next town was free from pox and welcoming to a bard and his musical talents.
“You said something about her,” Geralt said, loosening his grip on Roach’s reins so she could browse at the side of the road.
“To whom, Geralt? You really must learn to elaborate if we are going to travel together again,” Jaskier said, plucking a string that twanged horribly.
“To the man who attacked you, back in Troy,” Geralt said with a shrug. “He must have made some crass remark about your sister?”
Jaskier tutted at his lute’s sour string.
Geralt knew well the pained look that would cross Jaskier’s face whenever he needed to replace the fragile and costly things.
“Oh, I don’t remember,” Jaskier said. “I was probably defending her honour… a charity that I usually reserve for witchers, mind you. Although neither of my sisters ever needed much defending.”
“Hmm,” Geralt hummed. He didn’t want to pry, but this was only the second time in twenty-two years that Jaskier had mentioned a sibling. And the first time had only happened a few days earlier.
“Don’t look so downtrodden, witcher,” Jaskier said with effervescence. “I’ll still defend your honour should the occasion arise, despite my injury.” Jaskier gently prodded at the corner of his mouth with his thumb. He had dabbed the blood away in the morning and the cut looked to be nearly healed.
“I was referring to your sisters,” Geralt said.
“Ahh, my esteemed siblings. I promised you, days ago, that I would elaborate about my darling sisters. There’s no need for you to grovel for more information,” Jaskier said.
Geralt frowned. His eyes narrowed and drifted toward the bard. He tugged on Roach’s lead and picked up the pace. He knew she would find the fresh hay more interesting than his conversation and he wanted her to hurry along so he could hear every word Jaskier said. Having spent a few days letting thoughts about Jaskier’s family rattle around in his head, he was curious to learn more about them, especially his sisters.
Did they play a musical instrument?
Were they younger or older?
Did they have the same soft chestnut hair and cornflower blue eyes that Geralt knew so well?
“Both of the girls are younger than me,” Jaskier began, “but not by much.”
“Go on,” Geralt said. “I’m dying to learn more.”
“You don’t have to resort to sarcasm with me, Geralt,” Jaskier chided. “The girls have stories as rich and robust as my own, although I don’t think either of them ever travelled with a witcher before.”
“Hmm,” Geralt grunted. “Not many humans have travelled with a witcher, in all fairness.”
“Leocretia is the eldest of the two. She must be thirty-eight or possibly thirty-nine by now. I keep forgetting to compose a name day greeting for her.”
“Interesting name,” Geralt said.
“She was named for my mother’s grandfather, Leofrin. I think my mother wanted another boy,” Jaskier said. “In some ways, her desires were granted.”
“How so?” Geralt asked.
A stiff breeze blew from the west. The sun beat down on the witcher and his bard. A mild weather day teased the pair into thinking summer might never end. The salt-laden wind refreshed them, and convinced them to travel long into the day, the promise of the coast like a whisper from a lover.
“Leocretia began taking swordsmanship lessons the moment she emerged from her cradle,” Jaskier said with a laugh. “By her tenth name day, she had bested all the boys in her school, and twice battled her master to a draw.”
“It sounds like she would be a formidable opponent,” Geralt said.
“When she got her first blood, she was furious,” Jaskier said. “It was the month before the King of Kerack was to choose from the best of the land’s swordsmen to compete for a place in his honour guard.”
“The fairer sex suffers the whims of nature,” Geralt said. “I assume she withdrew from consideration.”
“You’d be wrong,” Jaskier said with a grin.
“I know the way you weave your tales well enough now, bard,” Geralt acknowledged. “That surely isn’t the end of Lady Leocretia’s story.”
Jaskier let out a giggle.
It was music to Geralt’s ears. He remembered how he had raged at Jaskier, hoping to drive him away. But the delight in Jaskier’s voice convinced Geralt that the bard would be just as happy following Geralt to the ends of the earth as he would be living in the boudoir of the most stunning lady of the land.
“She decided that she wanted nothing to do with having tits,” Jaskier said. “She bound her budding breasts in a linen wrap.”
“And she told you this?”
“Told me?” Jaskier sputtered. “I was the one helping her with the binding!”
Geralt snorted. “Your mother must have been angry at her daughter’s immodesty,” he remarked.
“Oh, oh, oh! You really don’t know my mother.”
“That’s true,” Geralt said. “I had almost forgotten what you’ve told me of her. She isn’t like most mothers, as I recall.”
“You’ve got that right,” Jaskier said. He stopped in the middle of the road and tore his left boot off his foot. He shook the boot upside down. A large pebble fell from the boot and bounced onto the ground.
Geralt waited while Jaskier slid his foot back into his boot.
“My mother went into full support mode. She cut Leocretia’s hair short. She was already indistinguishable from any man because of her sword skills,” Jaskier said, taking a step before giving a satisfied nod that his boot was free from the stone. “And now she was somewhat indistinguishable in appearance.”
“Somewhat?” Geralt asked. He couldn’t imagine a more manly maiden at this point.
“There was more,” Jaskier continued. “Mother granted Leocretia her greatest wish. She took her all the way to Novigrad, to Yuri Pichuev. You’ve heard of him?”
“I can’t say I have,” Geralt replied.
“Continent-renowned tattooist?” Jaskier said, spreading his arms wide.
“I may have heard of him,” Geralt said with a nod. As a traveller along the Path, Geralt had occasion to meet all sorts of people. Those who enjoyed adorning their bodies with art were no exception.
“Mother let Leocretia and Yuri design her tattoo to commemorate the occasion of her first blood.”
“Something feminine to welcome her arrival to womanhood?” Geralt asked, knowing this would not likely be the case.
“A battle scene stretching across her chest from her right armpit to her left,” Jaskier said.
Geralt sputtered, speechless.
“It was magnificent.”
“Hmm,” Geralt said. The elaborate artwork would certainly make Leocretia stand out among the competitors for the king’s honour guard.
“With the words, Born from Blood, written in intricate scrollwork above the image. It was quite fitting, don’t you think?”
The metaphor was not lost on Geralt. In her adulthood, Leocretia would be a force in battle, judging from her appearance alone. He knew many young swordlings that would shit themselves if they ran into a woman like Leocretia on the battlefield.
“When it came time to compete for the position in the honour guard, she won handily,” Jaskier said. “It came as no surprise to most of the young men she bested in battle.”
“We’ll drink a toast to her when we get to Roggeveen,” Geralt said. Or maybe he would be allowed to meet the maiden when he arrived in Lettenhove with Jaskier. After offering his condolences over the loss of her father, Geralt might challenge her to a duel so he could see if her skills had held up over the years.
“I love how my mother convinced her to embrace her blood and use it to her advantage,” Jaskier mused. “That’s the kind of mother I have. One who would encourage her son to become a Master of the Seven Liberal Arts, and who wouldn’t bat an eyelash when he wanted to travel the Continent performing in taverns.”
Geralt tilted his head. He had known some strong women in his time, but Jaskier’s mother sounded mentally stronger than most warriors he knew. “For a mother to encourage her children like that is a rare thing,” Geralt remarked.
“My mother was never one to abide by protocols or to respect the boundaries inflicted on most women,” Jaskier said. “Because of my mother’s encouragement, Leocretia moved through the ranks. She’s now the head guard in King Osmyk’s entourage.”
“Impressive,” Geralt said.
“My mother was wildly imaginative,” Jaskier said.
“Isn’t she still?” Geralt asked.
“I suppose she still is, even in her old age. It wouldn’t surprise me to learn that she’s taken up some such hobby like swordfighting or marksmanship with a crossbow to pass the time since my father’s death.”
“And what of your other sister?”
“Ainsley!” Jaskier exclaimed. “She doesn’t need her older brother to defend her honour either.”
“Another swordswoman?” Geralt asked.
“No, she became a mother when she was still quite young,” Jaskier said. “She married her sweetheart, Mateusz of Caelf. They have four children now and they keep her too busy even to write to me on most years.”
Geralt watched the bard gaze off into the horizon. Soft white clouds gathered in the air above the coastal plain where the sea struck the land.
“I think I can make out the towers of Roggeveen,” Jaskier said. “I’m getting closer to home… my family.”
“You haven’t seen them in a long time?” Geralt asked.
“A few years ago, when you went to Kaer Morhen for the winter, I visited during my solstice break from Oxenfurt,” Jaskier said wistfully.
“You’ll see them soon enough,” Geralt said.
Jaskier bit his upper lip, then he seemed to carefully choose his words. “I think, if they ask… if they ask me to take my father’s title of Count, I’m going to turn them down.”
“Hmm?” Geralt couldn’t understand Jaskier’s reluctance. A title could provide him with plenty of coin and all the prestige he could ever hope for. “Why would you do that?” he asked.
Jaskier took a deep breath. “For one thing, Leocretia would be much more suited to court life. And to managing my father’s lands—she’s got the skills and the connections to keep our family as successful as it has been for many years to come.”
“Hmm,” Geralt acknowledged.
“And there’s no place for a Master of the Seven Liberal Arts in kingdom politics,” Jaskier said. “I’d miss performing more than if I lost my right arm. And….”
A salty breeze ruffled Jaskier’s hair. He stopped in his tracks and turned to Geralt.
“And?” Geralt asked.
“And I wouldn’t be able to leave my office the first time word of a basilisk threatened in Redania or a group of drowners were seen in a lake in Cintra,” Jaskier said. “I know it’s been a few months since we’ve travelled together, but I’ve missed it, Geralt. I’ve missed you.”
~
They arrived in Roggeveen in the early afternoon. Geralt was anxious to have his armour repaired and he needed to purchase some ingredients to round out his depleted potions. One desire pressed even more deeply than the standard tasks that needed accomplishing when the witcher visited a larger town—Geralt wanted a hot bath and a hearty meal.
The Blue Gables Inn stood on a peninsula that jutted out into the ocean. On a clear day, one could see all the way to Pont Vanis, across the great expanse of sea. In this idyllic setting, the bard and the witcher reserved the last available room for the evening.
The innkeeper apologized to Jaskier because of the dire situation of having only one remaining room with a solitary featherbed available. If Jaskier promised to entertain the many travellers who visited The Blue Gables on this beautiful autumn night, he would see to it that a cot was sent to the room to accommodate his friend, the witcher. Unless the witcher preferred to sleep in the stable with his horse?
Jaskier apparently became so affronted by the suggestion that he nearly took a swing at the innkeeper.
Geralt tugged on Jaskier’s short ponytail before the bard could take action and ruin their opportunity to get a good night’s rest. Besides, Geralt knew Jaskier had been looking forward to performing in a tavern as soon as possible. He had run through his planned set list backwards and forwards as they travelled the remaining miles to Roggeveen that morning.
“A cot will suffice,” Geralt said, fingers still clutching Jaskier’s hair. “And the bard is weary from his travels. He’ll be happy to entertain your guests after a hot bath is sent to our room.”
Jaskier reached up and reclaimed his hair from Geralt’s grasp. “That’s right,” he said, casting his eyes up and down Geralt. “My friend and I would also like a bottle of your finest wine and a platter of meats, fruits, and cheeses sent to our room.”
“I’ll see to Roach first. Then I must tend to my errands,” Geralt said, pulling Jaskier aside.
“As long as you meet me back here before I begin my performance,” Jaskier said, as the innkeeper happily took the gold crowns that Geralt had slipped into Jaskier’s coin pouch.
“I hope to be back well before then,” Geralt said with a snort. “I wouldn’t want any of the wine and food to go to waste.”
Geralt set off to visit the armourer and to restock his potion-making supplies at the tiny herbalist’s shop. The journey to reach the coast had taken many unexpected turns. Geralt never could have predicted, when he sat on a rocky outcrop mourning Borch’s death, how he and Jaskier would arrive at the Roggeveen coast on this day. He couldn’t have guessed that he would later muster all his mental fortitude to drive Jaskier away, only to reunite with him as the bard travelled back to Lettenhove to pay his respects to his family upon his father’s death.
Geralt, now freshly bathed and holding a goblet of Toussaint Red in his hand, looked out onto the ocean. He now regretted the decision he made that day on the mountain. He should have agreed to visit the coast with Jaskier before everything went to shit. It seemed that all had been forgiven, despite Geralt not making an apology.
A warm breeze made the gauzy white drapes in their room flutter.
Geralt didn’t know what kind of favours Jaskier had called in, but their room sat high on the upper floor of the inn and boasted a sweeping view of the Redanian coastline. The room opened to a balcony with a pair of tufted chaises and a small table. The sun streaked over the ocean, each wave glittering like diamonds.
“Do I look acceptable?” Jaskier asked, stepping onto the balcony where Geralt sat. He reached over and plucked a berry off the platter of food that the innkeeper had sent— along with the cot which, inside their room, now bore all Jaskier’s belongings, hastily packed for the trip home.
“Hmm,” Geralt grunted as he turned his eyes from the ocean to Jaskier.
Jaskier spread his arms and turned around in a circle.
The bard wore a long red vest that looked to be of the same material as the prized coat that he had been treating so carefully since Geralt first saw it in Kovir. Beneath the vest, a pale yellow sleeveless chemise only made its appearance known because its silky fabric cascaded from below the hem of the vest. At first glance, the fabric looked to be of a solid pale yellow, but if one studied it more closely, the faint lines of a darker yellow traced a silhouette of dandelions. The yellow blooms of varying shades reached down and curled around Jaskier’s hips. Jaskier’s black trousers had been freshly pressed and tucked into his boots as was his usual style.
Geralt’s mouth fell open.
“I bought it in the cutest shop across the way, while you were off doing your errands,” Jaskier said. “The style has been all the rage in Novigrad this summer. Do you like it?”
Geralt said the second thing that came to mind. “No doublet?” he asked.
Jaskier shrugged. “I thought it was time for something different. Besides, the vest matches my leather coat, and the shopkeeper gave me a deep discount since summer is nearly over and cooler weather will soon be on its way.”
“Your arms,” Geralt, no longer able to refrain, uttered the first thing that had come to mind.
Jaskier’s brows knitted in confusion. “My arms?” he asked, turning his head to look first down the length of his right arm, then his left.
“Just… you didn’t have that outfit when we arrived,” Geralt noted, shaking his head to clear the lustful thoughts that hid in the corners of his mind.
Although Geralt had seen Jaskier’s bare arms many times in their travels, he had rarely taken much notice of how the bard’s upper body bulged with hardened muscle. It suddenly occurred to Geralt that Jaskier may have always possessed such strength, the evidence well-hidden under his doublets and ostentatious leather coat. Geralt knew well from his training that this amount of muscle was not something that one acquired overnight, but from a lifetime of practice. For a moment, his fingers itched to feel the dips and mounds of Jaskier’s smooth skin. He longed to feel the weight of the bard’s chest as it pressed him down into the featherbed.
“I get hot when I’m performing,” Jaskier said, taking a slice of cheese from the platter of food and popping it into his mouth.
Geralt remained stiff-lipped, his mind racing at the double-entendre. He wiped a bead of sweat from his forehead.
“And I’ve been wanting to try a sleeveless style for some time now. It’s been too chilly in Kovir.” Jaskier said. He lifted the bottle and poured wine into a goblet. “And you’ve heard how my doublet cuff sometimes hits one of my lute strings if I lose concentration when I’m playing. Too much ale, yes, but it’s downright embarrassing for a musician of my calibre.”
“I thought that was part of the charm of live entertainment,” Geralt said, regaining his train of thought.
Jaskier waved his hand dismissively. “You still have a lot to learn about entertainment, my friend,” he said, slumping into a chaise opposite Geralt. He kicked his legs over the armrest and reclined before drinking deeply from his goblet.
Geralt raised an eyebrow and sipped his wine. The robust taste of Temeria’s finest grape crop burst onto his tongue. Certain scents and tastes sometimes offended Geralt’s senses, heightened by the mutagens from his witcher trials. But the fruity blend of sun-ripened grapes tasted sublime.
“Did you notice the innkeeper called you my friend?” Jaskier asked, peering over the rim of his goblet.
“Hmm,” Geralt replied, hiding a grin in a deep gulp of wine.
“You didn’t even leap over the counter to correct him,” Jaskier said, plucking a slice of apple from the platter.
Before the event on the mountain that separated the two men, Geralt had often refuted the term. Innkeepers, stableboys, even lords and ladies of the court had referred to Jaskier as Geralt’s friend. Geralt had always been quick to point out that Jaskier was most certainly not his friend.
But the term had not gone unnoticed by Geralt when the innkeeper of The Blue Gables applied it. For the first time, Geralt made a conscious decision to ignore it.
The revelations about Jaskier’s family pushed Geralt into considering Jaskier a friend. He once thought of Jaskier as a bratty bard who dined from a silver spoon, only to be disowned by parents who wanted something more for him. But after learning about Jaskier’s mother, Geralt now understood that she did want something more for her son, something more for all her children.
Jaskier and his siblings were not simple peasant offspring, praised for their obedience and commitment to behaving as they should. Jaskier’s mother wanted them to have opportunities that she never had as a youth. Of course, she successfully found her own way, leaving behind whatever godsforsaken backwater town where she dwelled as a child. But something in her inborn motivation had bled into her parenting. She inspired her children to explore the Continent to their hearts’ desire. The possibilities were endless for the Pankratz children.
Jaskier was proof of that. A Continent-renowned bard. A professor at Oxenfurt. A Master of the Seven Liberal Arts. He had achieved far more in his short life than he would have if he settled into the life of an heir to a Count.
And what of Leocretia and Ainsley?
The lifepath for a Pankratz child was full of boundless opportunity—nothing like the purpose-driven Path of a witcher.
“Friend,” Geralt said. He savoured the word in his mouth, letting each letter of the word intentionally touch his lips. He would be proud to call Jaskier his friend.
“Maybe friend is too strong of a word for you, witcher,” Jaskier said. “Are witchers even capable of having friends?”
Geralt swirled the wine in his goblet. “I have brothers, who I consider friends. And mages, like Mousesack of Cintra… but perhaps you are right. Witchers typically have no need for friendship.”
Witchers were made to kill. They didn’t deserve the kind of friendships enjoyed among humans. Neither monsters nor princesses born under the black sun could ever know compassion from Geralt’s blade.
Jaskier emptied his goblet and set it down on the table. He got to his feet and straightened his vest, letting the hem of the dandelion chemise flutter in the seabreeze that reached their balcony.
“For lack of a better term, we can let the innkeeper’s observation stand,” Jaskier said, smoothing his hair into its short ponytail. “And now, friend, you must excuse me as I venture downstairs to scope out my audience. Will they prefer an evening of instrumental music or a night of bawdy drinking tunes? Heartfelt ballads or long-time favourites that have been sung by their families throughout the centuries? A bard never knows until he sees the crowd with his own two eyes. Once he sees what’s available in an audience, he can plan his attack upon their ignorance and lack of musical appreciation. If I didn’t know what to look for, I might not find it. And that, my friend, would be a shame.”
Geralt set his goblet beside Jaskier’s. “I’ll meet you down there after you get settled,” he said.
“Really, Geralt?” Jaskier asked, stopping on his way to the door to grab his lute. “If I didn’t know better, I might think you actually enjoyed hearing me play.”
“Hmm,” Geralt hummed noncommittally. But Jaskier was no longer there to hear.
~
By the time Geralt ventured downstairs to the tavern, Jaskier had already begun his first set. He had mounted the small stage area that the innkeeper maintained for performers. Sitting in a high-backed wooden chair, Jaskier strummed his lute. He nodded to Geralt when the witcher entered the room.
The opening song was familiar to Geralt’s ears. Neither a ballad nor a drinking song, the quiet unassuming melody served as an introduction to the songs the tavern-goers would hear as the evening progressed. Geralt wove his way through the audience, finding an unobtrusive vacant bench toward the back of the room.
A barmaid brought Geralt a tankard of ale, just as Jaskier finished the opening song to applause.
“For the bard’s friend,” the barmaid said with a smile, placing the tankard in front of Geralt.
Geralt reached for his coin purse, but the barmaid stopped him.
“Your coin is no good here, witcher,” she said. “The bard instructed us to keep your tankard full.”
Geralt grunted his thanks and secured the purse to his belt. When Geralt next looked up, Jaskier had risen from his chair and was urging the crowd to stomp their feet. Geralt shook his head knowingly when Jaskier launched into a trio of rousing drinking songs. After so many years together, the witcher knew which tack the bard would take when entertaining a crowd.
The barmaid returned with a steaming bowl of mussel stew and a slice of thick bread slathered with butter and honey. Another benefit of travelling with a Master of the Seven Liberal Arts.
Geralt drank his ale and dug into the stew which was laced with wine and fragrant herbs. Occasionally, he caught a glimpse of Jaskier as he floated around the room, never giving his attention to one patron for longer than a few seconds before moving on to another.
The yellow dandelions of Jaskier’s new clothing fluttered behind him as he danced through the crowd. His eyes gleamed their darkest blue in the tavern light and his voice would melt the hardest of hearts. If Geralt didn’t know better, he wouldn’t have guessed that Jaskier had just lost a parent. But Jaskier was an actor, a performer above all.
The crowd stomped their feet rambunctiously enough to shake the timbers of the inn as the third drinking song came to an end.
Geralt ducked his head to avoid unwanted attention when Jaskier launched into his signature Toss a Coin song. But he couldn’t avoid Jaskier’s presence when the bard approached his table during the first chorus. Jaskier caught Geralt’s eye and gave him a wink, earning some catcalls from the tavern-goers.
Geralt shook his head and tried unsuccessfully to stifle the grin that bloomed across his face.
Fortunately, Jaskier took pity on him and did not linger in his dark corner of the tavern for very long.
When Geralt finished his stew, the barmaid came to clear the bowl away. She brought a fresh tankard of ale, which Geralt had to admit was the best ale he had tasted in a very long time. Although the consumption of alcohol didn’t affect a witcher as much as it did a human, Geralt’s veins sang with a pleasant buzz as Jaskier finished up his first set.
The applause had died down when Jaskier made his way over to Geralt’s corner. He had left his lute on the stage, but instead of holding a tankard of ale in his hand, he gripped the hand of a willowy blonde woman who he dragged in his wake.
“Geralt!” Jaskier exclaimed, plopping himself down on the bench in front of the witcher. “I want you to meet Vivian.”
The blonde, Vivian, wore a shimmering black bodice that fell to the hem of her skirt. Her breasts threatened to escape the narrow strips of fabric that ran in an upside-down vee from a metal hoop that sat below her throat.
“Enchanted to make your acquaintance, Geralt of Rivia,” Vivian said, holding out her hand to greet Geralt.
“Hmm,” Geralt groaned. While he had been worried about Jaskier’s grief over his father, the bard had been playing to one patron in particular, after all. The accursed mussel stew and delicious ale had sufficiently distracted the witcher enough so he hadn’t noticed the bard’s conquest.
Jaskier grabbed Geralt’s tankard of ale and drank the entire thing down without coming up for a breath.
“I’ve always wanted to meet a witcher,” Vivian said, dropping her hand disappointedly.
“See, darling,” Jaskier said, “I told you he wouldn’t be scary.”
“But where is his sword?” Vivian asked with a pout.
Geralt rolled his eyes.
Vivian trailed her fingers down the front of Jaskier’s vest. The scent of sage and bergamot flowed from him in waves. A button, or three, had come undone during the course of his performance. The dark swirls of Jaskier’s chest hair were well visible beneath the pale yellow of his chemise.
“Now, now, dear, the witcher doesn’t want to show you his sword,” Jaskier said, raising an eyebrow. “Or does he?”
Geralt had enough of the teasing. He pushed himself away from the table, preparing to leave. Vivian beat him to it though, announcing, “Jaskier, dear, I need to find the privy to powder my nose. I’ll make sure to sit right in front for your second set of songs.”
“Run along, then,” Jaskier said, taking another tankard of ale from a passing barmaid’s tray. “I hope to see you in a bit.”
Vivian ran her hand through her long blonde locks and said, “You can count on it.”
Geralt groaned as Vivian sashayed away.
Jaskier let out a loud hiccough before drinking half of the ale in the tankard he had stolen. “What did you think of her?” Jaskier asked, pushing the tankard toward Geralt as if he meant for the witcher to drink the other half.
Geralt shook his head. “I’ll bed down with Roach in the stables tonight, since it appears you will have company..”
“Wha—?” Jaskier asked, mouth open in bewilderment.
The crowd in the tavern began to pound on the tables, clamouring for more music.
“The lady Vivian,” Geralt said, ignoring Jaskier’s pinched eyebrows. “She’s your type.”
Jaskier apparently reneged on his offer of ale to the witcher. He seized the tankard and downed the other half of the ale that remained. Wiping his mouth on his bare forearm, he said, “Tall, blonde, bedecked in metal and clad in garb that would be more appropriate for an orgy? My type? You’ve got that right, Geralt.”
Geralt huffed out a breath. He watched Jaskier’s back as the bard elbowed his way to the stage again. Geralt left the tavern without looking back.
~
Geralt went directly to the stables to check on Roach. He fed the horse a carrot and kicked at the straw that covered the floor of her stall.
“What do you think, Roach?” Geralt asked, stroking her mane. “Is there room enough in there for me?”
Roach whinnied and stamped her foot. The mare always seemed to know Geralt’s thoughts, and this night was no exception.
“You’re right,” Geralt said. “I don’t deserve this kind of treatment. It was my coin that paid for our room for gods’ sake.”
Roach shook her head up and down. Her dark eyes contained a world of secrets known only to Geralt and herself.
“I should,” Geralt said, listening to the wisdom that Roach seemed to impart. He then let Roach lick the salt from the palm of his hand and confirmed his decision, “I will.”
Ten minutes later, Geralt entered the beautifully appointed room where he and Jaskier had enjoyed a bath, the balcony, and the refreshments. The sound of Jaskier’s performance filled the inn and it could not be ignored, even on the upper floor. Geralt determined that the bard had worked halfway through his second set.
Despite the amount of admiration Geralt had cultivated for his friend, and as much hope he had that Jaskier would find happiness away from the Path, he couldn’t tolerate the thought of him spending the night with Vivian. Geralt stripped off his boots and trousers, leaving on his smalls and his well-worn black shirt.
Geralt stepped onto the balcony and let the night air cool him.
An icy breeze blew in from the sea. A starry night glimmered over the waves.
Geralt decided he would sleep in his shirt to ward off the chill.
“Let Jaskier and his lady friend sleep out here if he’s brazen enough to bring company to our room tonight,” Geralt said to a strawberry that he snagged from the decimated platter of food. He chewed the piece of fruit that no longer held the sweetness that it once had hours ago.
Turning from the balcony, Geralt eyed the solitary bed, the centrepiece of their room in the inn. He closed the door to the balcony behind him and stepped toward the bed. Sparing a glance at Jaskier’s belongings which were strewn on the nearby lumpy cot, Geralt snorted and climbed into the bed.
The tavern-goers downstairs applauded and stomped their feet.
Geralt pulled the sumptuous covers up to his chin and sank into the soft bedding. He closed his eyes, damned if he would do so much as lift a finger to light a candle so Jaskier could see in the darkened room when he returned.
“With Vivian,” Geralt harrumphed, before calling on all his witcher faculties to sink into a meditative sleep.
Later that night, still many hours from morning, Jaskier quietly opened the door of their room. He smelled of fine ale, a tinge of sweat, and a faint scent of sage and bergamot.
Geralt didn’t notice the soft sound of Jaskier setting his lute aside, but he felt the bed dip beneath the bard’s weight. In his half-sleep, Geralt did not sense any trace of a human, either female or male, in a scent left on Jaskier’s skin. Jaskier was alone. Alone and unsullied by the likes of Vivian or any other of the patrons who would have jumped at the chance to bed him.
A warm sense of comfort washed over the witcher.
Geralt couldn’t tell if the comfort he felt came from the fact that Jaskier would spend the night alone, or from the warmth of Jaskier’s arm as it snaked around the witcher’s waist while he slept.
The witcher woke once before morning. The pleasant weight of Jaskier’s head rested on his shoulder and his fingers clutched the softness of a silky chemise embellished with dandelions.
~
Author: gwyllion
Genre: Canon era
Pairing: Geralt of Rivia | Geralt z Rivii/Jaskier |Dandelion
Rating: R
Words: 57,262
Warnings: Brief mention of sexual desires by an underaged minor character. Genderfluid minor character.
A/N: Visiting Marilka was written for the 2021 Witcher Big Bang. Thanks to my artist, Rogue Pyrola whose awesome artwork can be seen below, seren and the Witcher Big Bang mod team, and my wonderful beta Gillian who always makes my writing better. Thanks to The Witcher’s author, showrunners, and actors, (especially Mia McKenna-Bruce!), who inspire us to make more art.
This fic is dedicated to Nathan, who conceived it to be so.
Disclaimer: I did not create these characters. No disrespect intended. No profit desired, only muses.
Comments: Comments are welcome anytime, thanks so much for reading!
“What did he say about your sister?” Geralt asked, as the western route from Troy took them toward Roggeveen.
The road widened as it wandered through the lowlands on its approach to the coast. The meadowgrass had turned mostly to hay already and the rich scent captured Roach’s attention.
“What’s that?” Jaskier asked, pausing the strumming on his lute. He had been playing the instrument from the time they broke camp at the outskirts of Troy. He explained that he liked to stay in practice in case the next town was free from pox and welcoming to a bard and his musical talents.
“You said something about her,” Geralt said, loosening his grip on Roach’s reins so she could browse at the side of the road.
“To whom, Geralt? You really must learn to elaborate if we are going to travel together again,” Jaskier said, plucking a string that twanged horribly.
“To the man who attacked you, back in Troy,” Geralt said with a shrug. “He must have made some crass remark about your sister?”
Jaskier tutted at his lute’s sour string.
Geralt knew well the pained look that would cross Jaskier’s face whenever he needed to replace the fragile and costly things.
“Oh, I don’t remember,” Jaskier said. “I was probably defending her honour… a charity that I usually reserve for witchers, mind you. Although neither of my sisters ever needed much defending.”
“Hmm,” Geralt hummed. He didn’t want to pry, but this was only the second time in twenty-two years that Jaskier had mentioned a sibling. And the first time had only happened a few days earlier.
“Don’t look so downtrodden, witcher,” Jaskier said with effervescence. “I’ll still defend your honour should the occasion arise, despite my injury.” Jaskier gently prodded at the corner of his mouth with his thumb. He had dabbed the blood away in the morning and the cut looked to be nearly healed.
“I was referring to your sisters,” Geralt said.
“Ahh, my esteemed siblings. I promised you, days ago, that I would elaborate about my darling sisters. There’s no need for you to grovel for more information,” Jaskier said.
Geralt frowned. His eyes narrowed and drifted toward the bard. He tugged on Roach’s lead and picked up the pace. He knew she would find the fresh hay more interesting than his conversation and he wanted her to hurry along so he could hear every word Jaskier said. Having spent a few days letting thoughts about Jaskier’s family rattle around in his head, he was curious to learn more about them, especially his sisters.
Did they play a musical instrument?
Were they younger or older?
Did they have the same soft chestnut hair and cornflower blue eyes that Geralt knew so well?
“Both of the girls are younger than me,” Jaskier began, “but not by much.”
“Go on,” Geralt said. “I’m dying to learn more.”
“You don’t have to resort to sarcasm with me, Geralt,” Jaskier chided. “The girls have stories as rich and robust as my own, although I don’t think either of them ever travelled with a witcher before.”
“Hmm,” Geralt grunted. “Not many humans have travelled with a witcher, in all fairness.”
“Leocretia is the eldest of the two. She must be thirty-eight or possibly thirty-nine by now. I keep forgetting to compose a name day greeting for her.”
“Interesting name,” Geralt said.
“She was named for my mother’s grandfather, Leofrin. I think my mother wanted another boy,” Jaskier said. “In some ways, her desires were granted.”
“How so?” Geralt asked.
A stiff breeze blew from the west. The sun beat down on the witcher and his bard. A mild weather day teased the pair into thinking summer might never end. The salt-laden wind refreshed them, and convinced them to travel long into the day, the promise of the coast like a whisper from a lover.
“Leocretia began taking swordsmanship lessons the moment she emerged from her cradle,” Jaskier said with a laugh. “By her tenth name day, she had bested all the boys in her school, and twice battled her master to a draw.”
“It sounds like she would be a formidable opponent,” Geralt said.
“When she got her first blood, she was furious,” Jaskier said. “It was the month before the King of Kerack was to choose from the best of the land’s swordsmen to compete for a place in his honour guard.”
“The fairer sex suffers the whims of nature,” Geralt said. “I assume she withdrew from consideration.”
“You’d be wrong,” Jaskier said with a grin.
“I know the way you weave your tales well enough now, bard,” Geralt acknowledged. “That surely isn’t the end of Lady Leocretia’s story.”
Jaskier let out a giggle.
It was music to Geralt’s ears. He remembered how he had raged at Jaskier, hoping to drive him away. But the delight in Jaskier’s voice convinced Geralt that the bard would be just as happy following Geralt to the ends of the earth as he would be living in the boudoir of the most stunning lady of the land.
“She decided that she wanted nothing to do with having tits,” Jaskier said. “She bound her budding breasts in a linen wrap.”
“And she told you this?”
“Told me?” Jaskier sputtered. “I was the one helping her with the binding!”
Geralt snorted. “Your mother must have been angry at her daughter’s immodesty,” he remarked.
“Oh, oh, oh! You really don’t know my mother.”
“That’s true,” Geralt said. “I had almost forgotten what you’ve told me of her. She isn’t like most mothers, as I recall.”
“You’ve got that right,” Jaskier said. He stopped in the middle of the road and tore his left boot off his foot. He shook the boot upside down. A large pebble fell from the boot and bounced onto the ground.
Geralt waited while Jaskier slid his foot back into his boot.
“My mother went into full support mode. She cut Leocretia’s hair short. She was already indistinguishable from any man because of her sword skills,” Jaskier said, taking a step before giving a satisfied nod that his boot was free from the stone. “And now she was somewhat indistinguishable in appearance.”
“Somewhat?” Geralt asked. He couldn’t imagine a more manly maiden at this point.
“There was more,” Jaskier continued. “Mother granted Leocretia her greatest wish. She took her all the way to Novigrad, to Yuri Pichuev. You’ve heard of him?”
“I can’t say I have,” Geralt replied.
“Continent-renowned tattooist?” Jaskier said, spreading his arms wide.
“I may have heard of him,” Geralt said with a nod. As a traveller along the Path, Geralt had occasion to meet all sorts of people. Those who enjoyed adorning their bodies with art were no exception.
“Mother let Leocretia and Yuri design her tattoo to commemorate the occasion of her first blood.”
“Something feminine to welcome her arrival to womanhood?” Geralt asked, knowing this would not likely be the case.
“A battle scene stretching across her chest from her right armpit to her left,” Jaskier said.
Geralt sputtered, speechless.
“It was magnificent.”
“Hmm,” Geralt said. The elaborate artwork would certainly make Leocretia stand out among the competitors for the king’s honour guard.
“With the words, Born from Blood, written in intricate scrollwork above the image. It was quite fitting, don’t you think?”
The metaphor was not lost on Geralt. In her adulthood, Leocretia would be a force in battle, judging from her appearance alone. He knew many young swordlings that would shit themselves if they ran into a woman like Leocretia on the battlefield.
“When it came time to compete for the position in the honour guard, she won handily,” Jaskier said. “It came as no surprise to most of the young men she bested in battle.”
“We’ll drink a toast to her when we get to Roggeveen,” Geralt said. Or maybe he would be allowed to meet the maiden when he arrived in Lettenhove with Jaskier. After offering his condolences over the loss of her father, Geralt might challenge her to a duel so he could see if her skills had held up over the years.
“I love how my mother convinced her to embrace her blood and use it to her advantage,” Jaskier mused. “That’s the kind of mother I have. One who would encourage her son to become a Master of the Seven Liberal Arts, and who wouldn’t bat an eyelash when he wanted to travel the Continent performing in taverns.”
Geralt tilted his head. He had known some strong women in his time, but Jaskier’s mother sounded mentally stronger than most warriors he knew. “For a mother to encourage her children like that is a rare thing,” Geralt remarked.
“My mother was never one to abide by protocols or to respect the boundaries inflicted on most women,” Jaskier said. “Because of my mother’s encouragement, Leocretia moved through the ranks. She’s now the head guard in King Osmyk’s entourage.”
“Impressive,” Geralt said.
“My mother was wildly imaginative,” Jaskier said.
“Isn’t she still?” Geralt asked.
“I suppose she still is, even in her old age. It wouldn’t surprise me to learn that she’s taken up some such hobby like swordfighting or marksmanship with a crossbow to pass the time since my father’s death.”
“And what of your other sister?”
“Ainsley!” Jaskier exclaimed. “She doesn’t need her older brother to defend her honour either.”
“Another swordswoman?” Geralt asked.
“No, she became a mother when she was still quite young,” Jaskier said. “She married her sweetheart, Mateusz of Caelf. They have four children now and they keep her too busy even to write to me on most years.”
Geralt watched the bard gaze off into the horizon. Soft white clouds gathered in the air above the coastal plain where the sea struck the land.
“I think I can make out the towers of Roggeveen,” Jaskier said. “I’m getting closer to home… my family.”
“You haven’t seen them in a long time?” Geralt asked.
“A few years ago, when you went to Kaer Morhen for the winter, I visited during my solstice break from Oxenfurt,” Jaskier said wistfully.
“You’ll see them soon enough,” Geralt said.
Jaskier bit his upper lip, then he seemed to carefully choose his words. “I think, if they ask… if they ask me to take my father’s title of Count, I’m going to turn them down.”
“Hmm?” Geralt couldn’t understand Jaskier’s reluctance. A title could provide him with plenty of coin and all the prestige he could ever hope for. “Why would you do that?” he asked.
Jaskier took a deep breath. “For one thing, Leocretia would be much more suited to court life. And to managing my father’s lands—she’s got the skills and the connections to keep our family as successful as it has been for many years to come.”
“Hmm,” Geralt acknowledged.
“And there’s no place for a Master of the Seven Liberal Arts in kingdom politics,” Jaskier said. “I’d miss performing more than if I lost my right arm. And….”
A salty breeze ruffled Jaskier’s hair. He stopped in his tracks and turned to Geralt.
“And?” Geralt asked.
“And I wouldn’t be able to leave my office the first time word of a basilisk threatened in Redania or a group of drowners were seen in a lake in Cintra,” Jaskier said. “I know it’s been a few months since we’ve travelled together, but I’ve missed it, Geralt. I’ve missed you.”
~
They arrived in Roggeveen in the early afternoon. Geralt was anxious to have his armour repaired and he needed to purchase some ingredients to round out his depleted potions. One desire pressed even more deeply than the standard tasks that needed accomplishing when the witcher visited a larger town—Geralt wanted a hot bath and a hearty meal.
The Blue Gables Inn stood on a peninsula that jutted out into the ocean. On a clear day, one could see all the way to Pont Vanis, across the great expanse of sea. In this idyllic setting, the bard and the witcher reserved the last available room for the evening.
The innkeeper apologized to Jaskier because of the dire situation of having only one remaining room with a solitary featherbed available. If Jaskier promised to entertain the many travellers who visited The Blue Gables on this beautiful autumn night, he would see to it that a cot was sent to the room to accommodate his friend, the witcher. Unless the witcher preferred to sleep in the stable with his horse?
Jaskier apparently became so affronted by the suggestion that he nearly took a swing at the innkeeper.
Geralt tugged on Jaskier’s short ponytail before the bard could take action and ruin their opportunity to get a good night’s rest. Besides, Geralt knew Jaskier had been looking forward to performing in a tavern as soon as possible. He had run through his planned set list backwards and forwards as they travelled the remaining miles to Roggeveen that morning.
“A cot will suffice,” Geralt said, fingers still clutching Jaskier’s hair. “And the bard is weary from his travels. He’ll be happy to entertain your guests after a hot bath is sent to our room.”
Jaskier reached up and reclaimed his hair from Geralt’s grasp. “That’s right,” he said, casting his eyes up and down Geralt. “My friend and I would also like a bottle of your finest wine and a platter of meats, fruits, and cheeses sent to our room.”
“I’ll see to Roach first. Then I must tend to my errands,” Geralt said, pulling Jaskier aside.
“As long as you meet me back here before I begin my performance,” Jaskier said, as the innkeeper happily took the gold crowns that Geralt had slipped into Jaskier’s coin pouch.
“I hope to be back well before then,” Geralt said with a snort. “I wouldn’t want any of the wine and food to go to waste.”
Geralt set off to visit the armourer and to restock his potion-making supplies at the tiny herbalist’s shop. The journey to reach the coast had taken many unexpected turns. Geralt never could have predicted, when he sat on a rocky outcrop mourning Borch’s death, how he and Jaskier would arrive at the Roggeveen coast on this day. He couldn’t have guessed that he would later muster all his mental fortitude to drive Jaskier away, only to reunite with him as the bard travelled back to Lettenhove to pay his respects to his family upon his father’s death.
Geralt, now freshly bathed and holding a goblet of Toussaint Red in his hand, looked out onto the ocean. He now regretted the decision he made that day on the mountain. He should have agreed to visit the coast with Jaskier before everything went to shit. It seemed that all had been forgiven, despite Geralt not making an apology.
A warm breeze made the gauzy white drapes in their room flutter.
Geralt didn’t know what kind of favours Jaskier had called in, but their room sat high on the upper floor of the inn and boasted a sweeping view of the Redanian coastline. The room opened to a balcony with a pair of tufted chaises and a small table. The sun streaked over the ocean, each wave glittering like diamonds.
“Do I look acceptable?” Jaskier asked, stepping onto the balcony where Geralt sat. He reached over and plucked a berry off the platter of food that the innkeeper had sent— along with the cot which, inside their room, now bore all Jaskier’s belongings, hastily packed for the trip home.
“Hmm,” Geralt grunted as he turned his eyes from the ocean to Jaskier.
Jaskier spread his arms and turned around in a circle.
The bard wore a long red vest that looked to be of the same material as the prized coat that he had been treating so carefully since Geralt first saw it in Kovir. Beneath the vest, a pale yellow sleeveless chemise only made its appearance known because its silky fabric cascaded from below the hem of the vest. At first glance, the fabric looked to be of a solid pale yellow, but if one studied it more closely, the faint lines of a darker yellow traced a silhouette of dandelions. The yellow blooms of varying shades reached down and curled around Jaskier’s hips. Jaskier’s black trousers had been freshly pressed and tucked into his boots as was his usual style.
Geralt’s mouth fell open.
“I bought it in the cutest shop across the way, while you were off doing your errands,” Jaskier said. “The style has been all the rage in Novigrad this summer. Do you like it?”
Geralt said the second thing that came to mind. “No doublet?” he asked.
Jaskier shrugged. “I thought it was time for something different. Besides, the vest matches my leather coat, and the shopkeeper gave me a deep discount since summer is nearly over and cooler weather will soon be on its way.”
“Your arms,” Geralt, no longer able to refrain, uttered the first thing that had come to mind.
Jaskier’s brows knitted in confusion. “My arms?” he asked, turning his head to look first down the length of his right arm, then his left.
“Just… you didn’t have that outfit when we arrived,” Geralt noted, shaking his head to clear the lustful thoughts that hid in the corners of his mind.
Although Geralt had seen Jaskier’s bare arms many times in their travels, he had rarely taken much notice of how the bard’s upper body bulged with hardened muscle. It suddenly occurred to Geralt that Jaskier may have always possessed such strength, the evidence well-hidden under his doublets and ostentatious leather coat. Geralt knew well from his training that this amount of muscle was not something that one acquired overnight, but from a lifetime of practice. For a moment, his fingers itched to feel the dips and mounds of Jaskier’s smooth skin. He longed to feel the weight of the bard’s chest as it pressed him down into the featherbed.
“I get hot when I’m performing,” Jaskier said, taking a slice of cheese from the platter of food and popping it into his mouth.
Geralt remained stiff-lipped, his mind racing at the double-entendre. He wiped a bead of sweat from his forehead.
“And I’ve been wanting to try a sleeveless style for some time now. It’s been too chilly in Kovir.” Jaskier said. He lifted the bottle and poured wine into a goblet. “And you’ve heard how my doublet cuff sometimes hits one of my lute strings if I lose concentration when I’m playing. Too much ale, yes, but it’s downright embarrassing for a musician of my calibre.”
“I thought that was part of the charm of live entertainment,” Geralt said, regaining his train of thought.
Jaskier waved his hand dismissively. “You still have a lot to learn about entertainment, my friend,” he said, slumping into a chaise opposite Geralt. He kicked his legs over the armrest and reclined before drinking deeply from his goblet.
Geralt raised an eyebrow and sipped his wine. The robust taste of Temeria’s finest grape crop burst onto his tongue. Certain scents and tastes sometimes offended Geralt’s senses, heightened by the mutagens from his witcher trials. But the fruity blend of sun-ripened grapes tasted sublime.
“Did you notice the innkeeper called you my friend?” Jaskier asked, peering over the rim of his goblet.
“Hmm,” Geralt replied, hiding a grin in a deep gulp of wine.
“You didn’t even leap over the counter to correct him,” Jaskier said, plucking a slice of apple from the platter.
Before the event on the mountain that separated the two men, Geralt had often refuted the term. Innkeepers, stableboys, even lords and ladies of the court had referred to Jaskier as Geralt’s friend. Geralt had always been quick to point out that Jaskier was most certainly not his friend.
But the term had not gone unnoticed by Geralt when the innkeeper of The Blue Gables applied it. For the first time, Geralt made a conscious decision to ignore it.
The revelations about Jaskier’s family pushed Geralt into considering Jaskier a friend. He once thought of Jaskier as a bratty bard who dined from a silver spoon, only to be disowned by parents who wanted something more for him. But after learning about Jaskier’s mother, Geralt now understood that she did want something more for her son, something more for all her children.
Jaskier and his siblings were not simple peasant offspring, praised for their obedience and commitment to behaving as they should. Jaskier’s mother wanted them to have opportunities that she never had as a youth. Of course, she successfully found her own way, leaving behind whatever godsforsaken backwater town where she dwelled as a child. But something in her inborn motivation had bled into her parenting. She inspired her children to explore the Continent to their hearts’ desire. The possibilities were endless for the Pankratz children.
Jaskier was proof of that. A Continent-renowned bard. A professor at Oxenfurt. A Master of the Seven Liberal Arts. He had achieved far more in his short life than he would have if he settled into the life of an heir to a Count.
And what of Leocretia and Ainsley?
The lifepath for a Pankratz child was full of boundless opportunity—nothing like the purpose-driven Path of a witcher.
“Friend,” Geralt said. He savoured the word in his mouth, letting each letter of the word intentionally touch his lips. He would be proud to call Jaskier his friend.
“Maybe friend is too strong of a word for you, witcher,” Jaskier said. “Are witchers even capable of having friends?”
Geralt swirled the wine in his goblet. “I have brothers, who I consider friends. And mages, like Mousesack of Cintra… but perhaps you are right. Witchers typically have no need for friendship.”
Witchers were made to kill. They didn’t deserve the kind of friendships enjoyed among humans. Neither monsters nor princesses born under the black sun could ever know compassion from Geralt’s blade.
Jaskier emptied his goblet and set it down on the table. He got to his feet and straightened his vest, letting the hem of the dandelion chemise flutter in the seabreeze that reached their balcony.
“For lack of a better term, we can let the innkeeper’s observation stand,” Jaskier said, smoothing his hair into its short ponytail. “And now, friend, you must excuse me as I venture downstairs to scope out my audience. Will they prefer an evening of instrumental music or a night of bawdy drinking tunes? Heartfelt ballads or long-time favourites that have been sung by their families throughout the centuries? A bard never knows until he sees the crowd with his own two eyes. Once he sees what’s available in an audience, he can plan his attack upon their ignorance and lack of musical appreciation. If I didn’t know what to look for, I might not find it. And that, my friend, would be a shame.”
Geralt set his goblet beside Jaskier’s. “I’ll meet you down there after you get settled,” he said.
“Really, Geralt?” Jaskier asked, stopping on his way to the door to grab his lute. “If I didn’t know better, I might think you actually enjoyed hearing me play.”
“Hmm,” Geralt hummed noncommittally. But Jaskier was no longer there to hear.
~
By the time Geralt ventured downstairs to the tavern, Jaskier had already begun his first set. He had mounted the small stage area that the innkeeper maintained for performers. Sitting in a high-backed wooden chair, Jaskier strummed his lute. He nodded to Geralt when the witcher entered the room.
The opening song was familiar to Geralt’s ears. Neither a ballad nor a drinking song, the quiet unassuming melody served as an introduction to the songs the tavern-goers would hear as the evening progressed. Geralt wove his way through the audience, finding an unobtrusive vacant bench toward the back of the room.
A barmaid brought Geralt a tankard of ale, just as Jaskier finished the opening song to applause.
“For the bard’s friend,” the barmaid said with a smile, placing the tankard in front of Geralt.
Geralt reached for his coin purse, but the barmaid stopped him.
“Your coin is no good here, witcher,” she said. “The bard instructed us to keep your tankard full.”
Geralt grunted his thanks and secured the purse to his belt. When Geralt next looked up, Jaskier had risen from his chair and was urging the crowd to stomp their feet. Geralt shook his head knowingly when Jaskier launched into a trio of rousing drinking songs. After so many years together, the witcher knew which tack the bard would take when entertaining a crowd.
The barmaid returned with a steaming bowl of mussel stew and a slice of thick bread slathered with butter and honey. Another benefit of travelling with a Master of the Seven Liberal Arts.
Geralt drank his ale and dug into the stew which was laced with wine and fragrant herbs. Occasionally, he caught a glimpse of Jaskier as he floated around the room, never giving his attention to one patron for longer than a few seconds before moving on to another.
The yellow dandelions of Jaskier’s new clothing fluttered behind him as he danced through the crowd. His eyes gleamed their darkest blue in the tavern light and his voice would melt the hardest of hearts. If Geralt didn’t know better, he wouldn’t have guessed that Jaskier had just lost a parent. But Jaskier was an actor, a performer above all.
The crowd stomped their feet rambunctiously enough to shake the timbers of the inn as the third drinking song came to an end.
Geralt ducked his head to avoid unwanted attention when Jaskier launched into his signature Toss a Coin song. But he couldn’t avoid Jaskier’s presence when the bard approached his table during the first chorus. Jaskier caught Geralt’s eye and gave him a wink, earning some catcalls from the tavern-goers.
Geralt shook his head and tried unsuccessfully to stifle the grin that bloomed across his face.
Fortunately, Jaskier took pity on him and did not linger in his dark corner of the tavern for very long.
When Geralt finished his stew, the barmaid came to clear the bowl away. She brought a fresh tankard of ale, which Geralt had to admit was the best ale he had tasted in a very long time. Although the consumption of alcohol didn’t affect a witcher as much as it did a human, Geralt’s veins sang with a pleasant buzz as Jaskier finished up his first set.
The applause had died down when Jaskier made his way over to Geralt’s corner. He had left his lute on the stage, but instead of holding a tankard of ale in his hand, he gripped the hand of a willowy blonde woman who he dragged in his wake.
“Geralt!” Jaskier exclaimed, plopping himself down on the bench in front of the witcher. “I want you to meet Vivian.”
The blonde, Vivian, wore a shimmering black bodice that fell to the hem of her skirt. Her breasts threatened to escape the narrow strips of fabric that ran in an upside-down vee from a metal hoop that sat below her throat.
“Enchanted to make your acquaintance, Geralt of Rivia,” Vivian said, holding out her hand to greet Geralt.
“Hmm,” Geralt groaned. While he had been worried about Jaskier’s grief over his father, the bard had been playing to one patron in particular, after all. The accursed mussel stew and delicious ale had sufficiently distracted the witcher enough so he hadn’t noticed the bard’s conquest.
Jaskier grabbed Geralt’s tankard of ale and drank the entire thing down without coming up for a breath.
“I’ve always wanted to meet a witcher,” Vivian said, dropping her hand disappointedly.
“See, darling,” Jaskier said, “I told you he wouldn’t be scary.”
“But where is his sword?” Vivian asked with a pout.
Geralt rolled his eyes.
Vivian trailed her fingers down the front of Jaskier’s vest. The scent of sage and bergamot flowed from him in waves. A button, or three, had come undone during the course of his performance. The dark swirls of Jaskier’s chest hair were well visible beneath the pale yellow of his chemise.
“Now, now, dear, the witcher doesn’t want to show you his sword,” Jaskier said, raising an eyebrow. “Or does he?”
Geralt had enough of the teasing. He pushed himself away from the table, preparing to leave. Vivian beat him to it though, announcing, “Jaskier, dear, I need to find the privy to powder my nose. I’ll make sure to sit right in front for your second set of songs.”
“Run along, then,” Jaskier said, taking another tankard of ale from a passing barmaid’s tray. “I hope to see you in a bit.”
Vivian ran her hand through her long blonde locks and said, “You can count on it.”
Geralt groaned as Vivian sashayed away.
Jaskier let out a loud hiccough before drinking half of the ale in the tankard he had stolen. “What did you think of her?” Jaskier asked, pushing the tankard toward Geralt as if he meant for the witcher to drink the other half.
Geralt shook his head. “I’ll bed down with Roach in the stables tonight, since it appears you will have company..”
“Wha—?” Jaskier asked, mouth open in bewilderment.
The crowd in the tavern began to pound on the tables, clamouring for more music.
“The lady Vivian,” Geralt said, ignoring Jaskier’s pinched eyebrows. “She’s your type.”
Jaskier apparently reneged on his offer of ale to the witcher. He seized the tankard and downed the other half of the ale that remained. Wiping his mouth on his bare forearm, he said, “Tall, blonde, bedecked in metal and clad in garb that would be more appropriate for an orgy? My type? You’ve got that right, Geralt.”
Geralt huffed out a breath. He watched Jaskier’s back as the bard elbowed his way to the stage again. Geralt left the tavern without looking back.
~
Geralt went directly to the stables to check on Roach. He fed the horse a carrot and kicked at the straw that covered the floor of her stall.
“What do you think, Roach?” Geralt asked, stroking her mane. “Is there room enough in there for me?”
Roach whinnied and stamped her foot. The mare always seemed to know Geralt’s thoughts, and this night was no exception.
“You’re right,” Geralt said. “I don’t deserve this kind of treatment. It was my coin that paid for our room for gods’ sake.”
Roach shook her head up and down. Her dark eyes contained a world of secrets known only to Geralt and herself.
“I should,” Geralt said, listening to the wisdom that Roach seemed to impart. He then let Roach lick the salt from the palm of his hand and confirmed his decision, “I will.”
Ten minutes later, Geralt entered the beautifully appointed room where he and Jaskier had enjoyed a bath, the balcony, and the refreshments. The sound of Jaskier’s performance filled the inn and it could not be ignored, even on the upper floor. Geralt determined that the bard had worked halfway through his second set.
Despite the amount of admiration Geralt had cultivated for his friend, and as much hope he had that Jaskier would find happiness away from the Path, he couldn’t tolerate the thought of him spending the night with Vivian. Geralt stripped off his boots and trousers, leaving on his smalls and his well-worn black shirt.
Geralt stepped onto the balcony and let the night air cool him.
An icy breeze blew in from the sea. A starry night glimmered over the waves.
Geralt decided he would sleep in his shirt to ward off the chill.
“Let Jaskier and his lady friend sleep out here if he’s brazen enough to bring company to our room tonight,” Geralt said to a strawberry that he snagged from the decimated platter of food. He chewed the piece of fruit that no longer held the sweetness that it once had hours ago.
Turning from the balcony, Geralt eyed the solitary bed, the centrepiece of their room in the inn. He closed the door to the balcony behind him and stepped toward the bed. Sparing a glance at Jaskier’s belongings which were strewn on the nearby lumpy cot, Geralt snorted and climbed into the bed.
The tavern-goers downstairs applauded and stomped their feet.
Geralt pulled the sumptuous covers up to his chin and sank into the soft bedding. He closed his eyes, damned if he would do so much as lift a finger to light a candle so Jaskier could see in the darkened room when he returned.
“With Vivian,” Geralt harrumphed, before calling on all his witcher faculties to sink into a meditative sleep.
Later that night, still many hours from morning, Jaskier quietly opened the door of their room. He smelled of fine ale, a tinge of sweat, and a faint scent of sage and bergamot.
Geralt didn’t notice the soft sound of Jaskier setting his lute aside, but he felt the bed dip beneath the bard’s weight. In his half-sleep, Geralt did not sense any trace of a human, either female or male, in a scent left on Jaskier’s skin. Jaskier was alone. Alone and unsullied by the likes of Vivian or any other of the patrons who would have jumped at the chance to bed him.
A warm sense of comfort washed over the witcher.
Geralt couldn’t tell if the comfort he felt came from the fact that Jaskier would spend the night alone, or from the warmth of Jaskier’s arm as it snaked around the witcher’s waist while he slept.
The witcher woke once before morning. The pleasant weight of Jaskier’s head rested on his shoulder and his fingers clutched the softness of a silky chemise embellished with dandelions.
~
