Chapter Text
Jaskier turned Filavandrel’s gift over and over in his hands, marveling at the fine Elven craftsmanship, his fingers itching to pluck the strings but not quite ready to dare. The lute was truly a thing of beauty and his mind was already awhirl with unfinished snippets of the ballads he would coax out of it.
The Witcher was carefully running his hands over his horse, inspecting the chestnut mare inch by inch to make sure that she’d suffered no harm while he and the bard had been enjoying Elvish hospitality, such as it was. He didn’t exactly suspect the Elves of being inclined toward wanton cruelty – at least not to animals – but Roach was a Witcher’s horse, and humans had, at times, attempted to mistreat her because of it.
“How is the dear girl? Still hale and hearty, I hope?” Jaskier moved up to stand beside the Witcher, reaching out to pat Roach’s flank. His hand was seized in an iron grip, just on the near side of painful.
“Don’t touch Roach,” Geralt growled, his golden eyes flashing for the brief moment he glared in the bard’s direction.
“Right, yes, of course,” Jaskier squeaked, trying unsuccessfully to tug his hand away. “Silly of me to forget.”
“Hmm.” Geralt grunted and released him.
Jaskier shook out his hand, prudently stepping out of what he thought was arm’s reach (future travels with Geralt would teach him differently – the man had a bloody long reach and was lightning fast). “These fingers are my livelihood, you know. Rude man. Not that I blame you, dear girl,” Jaskier assured Roach hurriedly. “Melitele knows what you’ve had to put up with. You are the noblest of steeds, to so stoically bear a man with such poor manners.”
“Bard,” Geralt rumbled in warning. He set his foot in the stirrup and swung into the saddle, turning Roach to face the road back to Posada.
Jaskier grinned at him, slinging the strap of the lute over his shoulder and plucking out a few chords. The sound was even sweeter than he’d imagined it would be – this lute had a beautiful voice. Now to compose a ballad worthy of it.
He managed to keep pace with Geralt, who didn’t seem in any hurry to get back to collect the rest of his fee. As he hummed and strummed, he wondered idly if the Witcher’s reluctance was due to the reception he usually got as a result of his reputation, or if he felt any qualms about not strictly fulfilling the understood, if informal, terms of the contract. He suspected that it was the former. The thefts plaguing Posada would stop now, even if the thieves themselves remained alive. The job was done, coin was coin, the fine details didn’t matter.
Well. There might be something he could do about the Witcher’s reputation, at least.
“That’s not how it happened,” Geralt said gruffly, startling Jaskier out of his contemplation. “Where’s your newfound respect?”
Jaskier gave him a tight smile, thinking back to the lessons from one of his favorite masters at Oxenfurt, who had specialized in teaching history alongside the ballads, epics, and poetry of the times – paying particular attention to the discrepancies between them.
“Respect doesn’t make history.” The bard turned and sang, putting the pieces of the ballad he’d just composed together for a first run-through, walking on a little ahead of Geralt and Roach.
The Witcher grunted after he finished with a final flourish. “You make me into a hero, the Sylvan into a devilish mastermind, and Filavandrel into a villain. He’s trying to save what’s left of his people, and the Sylvan was helping him. Helping them. Keeping them from starving.”
“You think I should sing the truth, is that it, Witcher?” Jaskier asked, his tone light. He watched out of the corner of his eye for any signs that Geralt was preparing to dismount – he didn’t want another fist to the gut. He was still aching from the beating he took from the Elves.
“Why would you sing anything else?”
Jaskier hummed, tilting his head slightly. “I should sing, to my fellow humans – the descendants of those who perpetrated the Great Cleansing – of Filavandrel and his weakened, vulnerable people? Of where the Elves are fleeing in order to survive? Of how they hope to build a future for themselves and perhaps one day reclaim what was theirs?”
Geralt’s face, if possible, soured even more, and he grunted, urging Roach into a trot so that they passed the bard. Jaskier coughed slightly on the dust they kicked up.
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Even with having to stable Roach and give her a rubdown after their long ride, Geralt still beat Jaskier to the tavern to collect the rest of the money he’d been promised when he took the contract, and the atmosphere at the bar was decidedly unfriendly as the bard slipped inside the door. It was time for the evening meal, so the common room was much more crowded than it had been the day that he and Geralt had set off together. Most of the patrons were eyeing the tall, imposing figure with suspicion, and Jaskier didn’t like the way that those big fellows in the far corner were muttering to each other.
“I’m here for the coin. There will be no more thefts of your grain.” Geralt was speaking to the thin, gangly man who’d offered him the contract.
“And we’re to take your word for it, are we? Butcher?” Sneered the barman, leaning into the conversation while absently scrubbing the bar top with a filthy rag.
Geralt’s shoulders stiffened in rage.
Jaskier took a deep breath and sculpted his face into a brilliant smile, pitching his voice so that it could be heard over the din. “Good people of Posada, the Witcher has returned victorious, your stores are safe once more! Gather ‘round, my friends, and I will tell you of the White Wolf’s bravery and heroism!”
And then he started to play, easily ignoring Geralt’s thunderous expression.
When a humble bard
Graced a ride-along
With Geralt of Rivia
Along came this song
The bard’s sure feet carried him around the room in an inviting sort of dance that was not a dance, his fingers keeping the rhythm while his words soared overhead. He made it easy for them, gave them the refrain after drawing them in, and was thrilled when a few of them hesitantly started to join in, the rest of them stamping their feet or tapping their mugs on the table.
He timed it so that the last verse put him next to Geralt at the bar, singing almost directly into the barman’s face to keep the greasy man from running away as all eyes were on them. He almost shouted the line “Now pour him some ale!” and the crowd cheered, some raising their cups in support of the sentiment.
Jaskier continued with the refrain, felt a surge of triumph when he heard the clink of coins falling at Geralt’s feet, and he again turned to the barman, singing “Toss a coin to your Witcher, O valley of plenty” very pointedly.
The barman scowled but the good cheer of the room was overwhelming, so he pulled a large mug out from under the counter and filled it with ale, pushing it toward Geralt. Jaskier knew from experience that it was horrid, sour stuff that looked like piss, but a free drink was a free drink.
It was easily the best-received song that Jaskier had ever played – of the ones he’d written himself, anyway. And after a few renditions of ‘Toss a Coin,’ there were plenty of requests for some of the older, more well-known ballads and jigs, and Jaskier was beginning to grow hoarse hours after the daylight had gone completely. He finished the last jig, bowed with a flourish, and blew kisses to the crowd as he made his way toward the corner in which Geralt had settled into an uninviting brood. He scooped up a few coins along the way – no mushy vegetables or stale bread this time.
He sank gratefully onto the bench across from the Witcher, setting his lute carefully down on the table. When he was sure that it was secure and safe from any spilled ale, he permitted himself a moment to close his eyes, rest his head in his hands, and catch his breath. He felt Geralt’s golden-eyed gaze on him, and he smiled lazily.
“Got a little more heft to your purse, Wolf?”
He opened his eyes when he heard a rumbled, “Hmm.”
Geralt was watching him, not quite a stare but Jaskier was unable to even guess at what was going on behind those eyes. “More than expected,” the big man said finally, nodding his head ever so slightly in acknowledgement.
One of the barmaids appeared at Jaskier’s elbow, setting a plate in front of him, along with a full mug and a bowl of apples for the table. Jaskier reached into his pocket for some of the coins he’d received after the night’s entertainment, but Geralt shook his head and waved the barmaid away.
Jaskier raised an eyebrow.
Geralt squinted at him.
The bard shrugged and took a long drink of the ale before tucking in to the night’s meal, feeling as though he hadn’t eaten in days. That was very nearly true – he’d eaten short travel rations with Geralt as they were tracking the Sylvan, and the Elves had not had much to spare after Filavandrel had decided to let them go.
“Humble bard?” Geralt said suddenly.
Jaskier looked up in surprise, swallowing his mouthful of food quickly. Three words or less. Then he grinned. “Artistic license.”
“…White Wolf?”
The bard waved a hand vaguely over his own head, tugging slightly at his hair, then gestured at Geralt’s medallion. “I thought it would suit you.”
“Hmm.” Without another word – or without any words, really, because ‘hmm’ didn’t count as a word in any language Jaskier knew – the Witcher stood, heading up the stairs to the rooms.
More coin than expected indeed, if he could afford to get a room for the night, Jaskier thought, pulling a handkerchief out of his sleeve to wipe his mouth. He grabbed a couple of apples from the bowl on the table and then his lute, lovingly caressing the strings as he stepped outside the tavern.
It was late, too late for Jaskier to consider taking a room for himself. He’d been light on funds himself before tonight, and didn’t fancy spending his earnings quite yet. He wandered into the nearby stable. Stables and barns were often decent enough places to sleep, he knew, so long as there was enough straw and the gaps in the walls were narrow.
Roach was in one of the stalls near the front of the stable, and she flicked an ear in his direction when he grabbed a pitchfork and deposited a few forkfuls of straw on the floor next to one of her stall walls. He sat, leaning his back against the wood and making himself relatively comfortable.
He jumped when he heard and felt a loud bang on the stall door, and looked up at Roach indignantly. “Don’t pretend you’re as ill-tempered as your master, dear girl.”
Roach blew at him dismissively.
“Or perhaps it’s because you know I have a treat and want to make sure I remember to give you your share, is that it?” Jaskier pulled a small knife from a sheath hidden in his boot and used it to carve a chunk out of one of the apples. He offered it to Roach, holding it out with a flat hand so she wouldn’t nip his fingers, and smiled when he felt her soft, whiskery lips take the morsel.
He cut up both of the apples, taking about half of the slices for himself, but generously offering Roach the apple cores, which she took greedily.
“Do you know, Roach, I think you and I are friends now.” The bard licked a bit of juice from his fingers. “I don’t suppose it’s quite as easy to get into the Witcher’s good graces. Although…” He trailed off thoughtfully. “I once met a woman – well, bedded a woman, in fact – who claimed to have tamed a wolf by offering it scraps of bacon. But I suppose that would not be the same for this kind of wolf.”
Roach made no noise in reply, which Jaskier took as confirmation. Geralt didn’t seem like the kind of man to care much about the small pleasures in life.
Feeling his eyes start to grow heavy, Jaskier curled onto his side, his lute tucked under his arm. He closed his eyes, letting the soft sounds of Roach and the other horses lull him to sleep.
When he woke in the morning, Roach’s stall was empty, but he found that someone had laid an old horse blanket over him as he slept.