Chapter Text
On some level, Jaskier is aware that he’s dreaming. In real life, beautiful women don’t hand-feed him fruit while he lounges luxuriously on a velvet and gold settee draped in silks. At least, not yet. He’s only a successful ballad or two from such earthly pleasures, of course, but at the moment, he contents himself to an existence that is decidedly more... pedestrian. So he tries to relish in the enchanting atmosphere of the not-quite-reality, but something is off. Years ago, this dream would have been perfect, but now Jaskier frowns to himself and looks around the golden, airy room, declining a grape offered to him by a particularly stunning muse. Yes, the dream is impeccably constructed. Money? Check. Women? Check. Fashion and other material comforts? Check. Complete and total adoration? Check. Still, he can’t quite get comfortable in his silks, even though they match the settee delightfully. Is it his lute? No, that’s propped up against the golden side table supporting a glass of the finest wine and a marble bust of himself. Nice , he thinks momentarily, but then furrows his brow when the uncomfortable sensation of missing something prickles at his skin.
“What’s wrong with me?” He asks the statue. It remains silent. “Why am I not happy?”
As if in response, the room starts to shake, shattering the ethereal ambience. The muses scream and run for cover as parts of the ceiling begin to fall, the delicately hand-painted clouds smashing the marble floor into chunks. Jaskier is rooted to his seat, paralyzed by the statue’s gaze. After another shake, the bust splits down the middle, and the last thing Jaskier sees is his own head crumbling to dust.
When he wakes up, the world is still shaking. No, he realizes. It’s just him shaking. Or, rather, someone shaking him.
“Jaskier,” a voice says gruffly. He knows that voice.
“Oh,” he breathes. It’s Geralt. They maintain eye contact for a beat too long. “Good morning, Geralt.”
Geralt frowns at him, but that might just be his default facial expression. “It’s four o’clock. In the afternoon.”
The world jostles again, and Jaskier realizes they’re on horseback. “Where are we?”
“Forest,” Geralt elaborates helpfully. It’s true; they’re surrounded by trees, except for the narrow dirt path Roach is trotting on.
“Where are we going?” Jaskier asks, only slightly annoyed that Geralt has relapsed into one-word responses. The first month of their travels, the Witcher had only spoken 35 words to him, 10 of which were “quiet” at varying levels of urgency. Jaskier had tried so hard out of the goodness of his heart to rehabilitate Geralt to the point of normal human interactions, but sometimes it seemed like he was a lost cause, even for skills of a particularly verbose bard.
“Castle,” is the response from the man sitting in front of him.
“How informative you are today,” Jaskier says sarcastically. “Luckily, as I am not only a master bard but a well-cultured intellectual--” --he pointedly ignores Geralt’s snort-- “--I shall simply endeavor to deduce our current location and future destination.”
He picks up his lute from a side bag, even as Geralt stiffens when he hears Jaskier strum a chord. “Where are we?” he muses to the lute. He gets a C-major chord in response. “Temeria, you say?” He says good-naturedly. “Why, you clever thing. How did you know?”
Geralt almost stops the horse. “Not even close.” But the revelation is too late; Jaskier has decided on the topic of his ballad.
“ Temeria, Temeria, it rhymes with femeria, better be careful or you’ll catch malaria… ” Jaskier sings. Is ‘femeria’ even a real word? No matter. The song has its intended effect on his traveling companion.
“Stop.”
“ It’s got the best whores in any given area, and they have the finest genitalia…”
Now Geralt does actually stop Roach, and twists around to stare disapprovingly at Jaskier. “No more singing.”
Jaskier scoffs. As if a lowly Witcher could halt the sacred and transformative ritual of the dissemination of art, mankind’s greatest and most powerful gift. He tells Geralt so.
“No singing.” Geralt repeats, rather petulantly, in Jaskier’s humble opinion.
“You, sir, are an enemy of culture.” Jaskier proclaims.
“Hm.”
Jaskier puts his lute back, anyway, and Geralt urges Roach forward along the nondescript dirt path of the nondescript forest. He picks at some fuzz on Geralt’s armor. At least, he hopes it’s fuzz, and not the fur of some poisonous beast that Geralt unceremoniously killed five weeks ago. Geralt reaches his hand back to slap Jaskier’s away. Jaskier pouts.
“You’re just mad that I was singing of whores. That, by the way, is supremely ironic, because you have taken more whores than I have. We’re all lucky you’ve not died on one of your adventures; if you had, they’d surely close every brothel on the continent in mourning,” Jaskier says, resting his cheek on Geralt’s back. He wrinkles his nose. Geralt’s armor stinks.
“Hm,” Geralt says.
They’re silent for a while, Jaskier leaning on Geralt, trying to recognize whichever godsforsaken forest they’ve had the misfortune of wandering into this time. He only vaguely remembers starting this journey. He was probably sloshed in a tavern somewhere when Geralt was going over the finer details with whichever contractor needed a monster killed.
“Well,” Jaskier says when he sees what looks like the same tree for the sixth time. “If you won’t let me play my lute, will you at least tell me where we’re going?”
“Castle,” Geralt repeats. Jaskier wants to strangle him.
“Yes, thank you, but I was hoping you’d be more specific, seeing as there are hundreds of castles on the continent.”
They pass the tree again. Jaskier considers beating himself senseless with his lute. Instead, he tightens his arms around Geralt’s waist and is opening his mouth again to shout some obscenity when Geralt holds up a hand.
“Almost there.”
Jaskier closes his mouth, but he’s not happy about it.
Half of him is angry at Geralt for being so insufferable, but all of him rejoices when Roach follows the dirt path out of the forest and into a pleasant looking valley. They’re on top of a hill which slopes lazily down to a village and back up again to a castle. It’s quaint.
They ride down to the village, which, according to a weather-beaten wooden sign, is called “Wioska”. Jaskier narrows his eyes and tries to remember if anything is familiar, but the buildings are so generic that he sees a thousand similar towns in his mind’s eye. He’s very well traveled. When they pass the village tavern (which is helpfully labeled “Village Tavern”), one of the maids stares at them so intently that she almost drops her drink when she walks into a wall. Another gasps. Very well traveled indeed, he thinks to himself smugly, but he doesn’t remember the women’s faces like he usually remembers conquests. Has he been here before or not? He tries to get off of Roach and get to the bar to find out (fine, mostly to get a drink, same difference), but Geralt very rudely refuses to stop the horse, just roughly pulls Jaskier back upright. As if they have not been wandering aimlessly through the wilderness for hours on end without so much as a half-flask of anything alcoholic.
“Wait, why are we not stopping at the tavern? We always stop at the tavern. You remember taverns, right? They have all the beer. Geralt,” he says anxiously, and pokes the Witcher’s shoulder. “Geralt. Beer.”
Geralt grunts again, and Jaskier has just about had it with this trip. He bristles quietly as the buildings along the main road pass them by. Fine. Just fine. Maybe they’ll go back to the tavern after meeting with whatever helpless soul Geralt’s savior complex has found this time. But this meeting had better be short. And Jaskier is so calling first bath. Even though Geralt stinks. Literally and metaphorically.
But they don’t stop at any of the houses, not even the decrepit ones with the creepy old people in the windows. Ew. Roach just keeps trotting until they are out of the village. Jaskier gapes at Geralt’s back.
“Was that not it? Hello, Geralt? Geralt? Ger-bear? The village, Geralt, the beer, Geralt--”
“Don’t call me that,” Geralt grumbles as Roach starts up the hill, leaving Jaskier’s will to live fading into the distance with the village.
“Well, then, tell me where in the seven hells we’re going!” Jaskier demands. He’s not really in the position to be making demands, though, because in reality he’s completely useless on these trips and both of them know it. Jaskier makes demands anyway, because Geralt lets him. “And if you just say ‘castle’ one more time, I swear to Melitele I--”
“Castle,” Geralt says smugly. Jaskier can hear the laugh in his voice. Bastard. Rotten bastard. In his head, he starts planning the nastiest, most scathing ballad ever written. There are multiple verses about Geralt’s propensity to offend innocent nostrils. He rhymes “Geralt” with “assault”, because he’s a lyrical genius and a poet. See if any Witcher ever gets a coin again. Ever.
Roach meanders to the top of the hill. Where there is a castle. It’s painfully generic in both appearance and size, with gray stone and not much else of note, but it is a castle. Actually, the longer he looks at it, the more this particular castle looks uninhabited. There are no banners proclaiming any royal crest, and the entire structure exudes a feeling of general despair. But Jaskier would prefer the ruins of a castle to a bedroll in the forest, especially if stopping here would mean precious time spent off of horseback.
“Ger-bear,” Jaskier breathes. “ Please tell me this is the castle.”
“Hm,” Geralt says. Smug bastard. They pass through the open (rusty) gates and into the (dilapidated) gatehouse. Finally, blessedly, Roach stops. Geralt hops off effortlessly, then helps Jaskier down. A boy comes up from seemingly thin air to bring Roach into the stables, and Jaskier grabs his lute before they go into the main hall. Just in case. Judging by the bland atmosphere of the entrance hall, he’s probably going to have to break out some tunes for entertainment, because this is not a party castle. It’s barely a dinner party castle. It lacks personality altogether.
“Needs more tapestries,” Jaskier says to himself. “And more gold accents.” Geralt makes no acknowledgement, but Jaskier knows he secretly agrees, because they always agree on the important things. And a good cleaning, he thinks but is not quite rude enough to say out loud. The only thing differentiating the inside of the castle from the outside is the color of the dirt on the walls. Jaskier wrinkles his nose.
The great hall is similarly (un)decorated, but at least the lighting is better. And there’s a chandelier. Someone is lounging on the king’s chair in the back. It’s quite possible his appearance is as tasteless as the decor— his long hair is brown either by nature or neglect, and there is a scraggly beard mauling the bottom quarter of his face. His crown is lopsided, and further shifts drunkenly on his head when he straightens.
“Witcher!” He calls loudly, and clunks a goblet down on the table in front of him. “I knew you would come.”
“You summoned me,” Geralt says dryly.
“Indeed I did,” the king concedes. He turns to a bored looking servant leaning against a wall. “You, tell the kitchens that we’ll all be taking lunch in my quarters.” Jaskier’s eyes bug out a little at that, but he’s survived much worse meetings in royal chambers, so he’s not quite worried yet. The mention of food is also quite convincing. The servant snaps to attention, bows, and scuttles off into the bowels of the castle.
“Come, this way,” the king says, and stumbles off in the opposite direction. They follow him out of the dreary great hall and down a dingy corridor that could really use an accent rug. The longer they walk, the harder it is for Jaskier to remember the direction of the exit; every hall of the castle looks exactly the same, with identical stonework and lack of decoration. This castle would be much less monotonous and confusing if it were actually furnished. They do, however, pass a large patch of unidentifiable mold, which reassures Jaskier that the drunken king has not been leading them in circles for ten minutes.
The king’s quarters are apparently not his bedroom, as Jaskier had feared. If he’s being completely honest, he’s seen quite enough royal bedrooms for one lifetime. The door they stop in front of leads to more of a drawing room, a place for strategy or advisory meetings. There’s one massive wooden table lined with matching wooden chairs that takes up most of the space, and the walls are covered in different maps, splotches of color defining countries and territories Jaskier has never cared to memorize. Some have knives sticking out of them. Jaskier resolves not to ask about the kingdoms which have been stabbed. At least there’s another chandelier in here, to liven everything else up.
“Please,” the king says, waving his hand at the chairs. “Sit.”
Without further ado, the king takes his place at the head of the table, plonking himself into the great chair in an unintentional mockery of the usual royal ceremony. Geralt chooses a chair at the opposite end. Neither man acknowledges the truly awkward amount of empty space along the length of the table. Jaskier tries to take a seat to Geralt’s right, but the large wooden chair is either so heavy or so seldom used that he can’t move it a hair’s width out of place. He struggles embarrassingly for a few seconds before Geralt sighs and gets back up to pull out Jaskier’s chair for him. Jaskier flashes him a sheepish smile. Geralt remains frowning, and then pushes him in like he’s a child. Jaskier shoots him a dirty look, but his insides do something odd when he sees the laughter in Geralt’s eyes. Insufferable man.
When they’re finally all seated and somewhat comfortable, the door opens again; Jaskier pretends he’s not interested in whoever is entering. Really, he’s trapped tightly between the table and the back of his chair and can’t move to look. Fucking Geralt.
The intrusion turns out to be the best case scenario, which is food. A faceless servant places gleaming silver dishes in front of them, and Jaskier doesn’t even care that this ugly castle is probably covered with dust all the way down to the kitchens. He doesn’t even care that he doesn’t even know why they’re here or if he’s been here before. Or, quite frankly, what he’s about to eat. It’s warm and decidedly not charred on a stick à la Geralt.
Despite his ravenous and almost indiscriminate hunger, he does wait for the king at the other end of the table to start eating before picking up his fork, because he wasn’t raised by wolves. Unlike some white haired lupine almost-men he could name. For all of his years and experience, Geralt still looks mildly uncomfortable whenever he has to eat something with actual silverware. Jaskier barely resists the urge to fix how Geralt’s holding his fork as he cuts into the meat. Whatever they were doing in Kaer Morhen, it was probably the opposite of dinner parties.
The food is delicious, but even if it weren’t Jaskier wouldn’t be able to tell the difference, because it is hot and not because of a shitty campfire. There’s even some sort of vegetable on the plate next to the potatoes. Geralt is done wolfing down his food by the time Jaskier looks up to take a sip of wine. Yeah, he definitely hasn’t been to any dinner parties this century. The thought of Geralt wearing a silk cravat by his own volition is enough to make Jaskier have a hard time swallowing his wine. He disguises his choked laugh as a cough, and Geralt glares at him like Witchers can read minds.
That would be horrible for Geralt, because right now Jaskier is picturing him with powdered cheeks and his hair done up with pink bows. Jaskier’s bottom lip quivers, and he bites it so he won’t make a fool of himself in front of royalty. Although, honestly, he’s been more embarrassed in front of more illustrious kings. At least right now everyone is fully clothed.
The rest of the meal is silent and exceedingly awkward and extremely silent save for the occasional clatter of silverware. Geralt is watching him eat, which somehow makes Jaskier self-conscious. He concentrates so hard on not meeting Geralt’s gaze his fork misses his mouth and gets food on his cheek. Geralt wordlessly hands him a cloth napkin, and Jaskier wordlessly thinks about strangling himself with it. At the other end of the table, the king seems to be completely absorbed with his own meal, for which Jaskier is eternally grateful. The food is good enough to get lost in, so Jaskier lets himself lose track of time and forget the way Geralt is watching his every bite.
Finally, after both the king and Jaskier have finished eating, the servants come to clear the places, which is a blessed distraction from Geralt’s stupid golden eyes.
Without the distraction of food, there is no way to avoid the business portion of the meeting. The king is silent for a few agonizing moments, as if trying to convince himself to open his mouth. There are dark circles under his eyes, as if despite his drunken state, he still couldn’t find rest. He clears his throat. “Do you know why I summoned you here, Witcher?”
“No.” Geralt says so gruffly that Jaskier kicks him under the table. Witches aren’t exactly known for their manners, but Jaskier is always thinking of Geralt’s reputation. With a withering glare at Jaskier, Geralt adds, “Why.” It’s not a question. Jaskier wants to kick him under the table again. Just because Geralt’s a Big Bad Witcher, it doesn’t mean he can be rude to the people that can and will have Jaskier’s painfully mortal head chopped off. Geralt gives him a look that says, interfere again and I will chop your head off with my scary swords and scary biceps.
Just as the king starts to respond, there is an insistent knock at the door. The king looks confused, which is probably not a good sign.
There’s the sound of the great doors opening, and although Jaskier can’t see who enters, he does see the king straighten until he’s rigid in his chair. Oh, most definitely not a good sign. Why do they always end up in other people’s drama?
“My lord,” comes a pinched, stiff female voice. “I-- I heard we had visitors.”
“They are here on my business,” the king says equally stiffly. Despite the alcohol he’s obviously liberally consumed, his words are sharp. Dismissive.
“Oh.” The voice says softly. “I just wanted to come and see. Just in case.” Jaskier wiggles in an admittedly undignified manner so he can turn to look at the unknown woman. Geralt sees him struggling, and raises an eyebrow.
Who is it? Jaskier mouths at him. Geralt frowns.
The queen.
Jaskier’s eyes threaten to pop out of his head. No wonder this castle’s so miserable. The tension in the air is unfit for human life. He wiggles slightly faster, trying to dislodge the chair. He’s got to see the queen. This drama is screaming to be immortalized in a tragic ballad. It’s been a while since he wrote a sad song, he realizes. This could be his big break.
“It’s just been so long since there have been… visitors.” The queen half-whispers sadly. Jaskier’s heart breaks. The crowds are going to eat this story up.
The king seems to audibly bristle. “They’re here on business,” he repeats.
The atmosphere in the room is so painfully strained that even Geralt’s usual stoic visage looks uncomfortable. Jaskier is dying to get out of his chair so he can scope out the action. He’s definitely Team Queen right now, but he does usually side with the ladies in such matters. Eventually, he scoots down in his chair until his legs get purchase of Geralt’s under the table, and he pushes off of them so hard that Geralt’s fork clatters to the table and Jaskier’s chair screeches as it scrapes backward just enough for him to move.
Unfortunately, the combined noise of the silverware on wood and chair on stone is enough to break the royalty out of their dramatic showdown. They both turn immediately to Jaskier, who tries to look as dignified as possible and not at all disoriented from physically fighting a piece of furniture.
The queen is probably one of the most gorgeous women Jaskier’s ever seen, which is quite the accomplishment. Her hair, unlike the rest of the castle, is perfectly manicured and a vibrant auburn. Jaskier is instantly jealous, and makes a mental note to ask for her beauty routine. She also has large, honey-brown eyes, and looks so beautiful in a peach-pink colored dress that he wants to weep. How did this goddess end up with the slob at the other end of the table? Yet the longer Jaskier looks at her, the more familiar her face becomes. He’s seen her before, he’s absolutely certain. But where? When? There’s a flash of a memory in his mind’s eye, those golden eyes filled with joy, the sound of her laughter...
Suddenly, the queen’s eyes find his. She gasps. Jaskier scarcely has time to think oh, shit before she practically runs to him, her face alight.
“Jaskier!” She says, and hugs him. Fuck, he thinks. Fuck fuck fuck. Across the table, Geralt is shooting him murder eyes. Jaskier doesn’t even want to think about how the king’s face looks right now. Fuck. His head is so getting chopped off, even with Witcher backup.
“Jaskier,” the queen breathes. “I can’t believe you came back.”
Luckily, two of Jaskier’s three main talents are flirting and self preservation (the third is, of course, never getting calluses on his fingers no matter how much he plays the lute), so his mouth goes off on its own while his brain tries to sort out what the hell is happening.
“Of course,” says Jaskier’s mouth, while the rest of his brainpower is sorting through years of red headed queens. There are more than originally anticipated. “I said I would.” He has no idea if he actually promised to return to this lovely woman, but it does sound like something he would say in the throes of passion. Jaskier likes to leave all of his doors open just in case.
The queen beams at him, and that’s enough that there’s a final flicker of recognition in his brain which is confirmed when the king bites out “Emnilda.”
Now that he knows for sure that he knows the queen, he’s both relieved and horrified. Relieved, because he has never slept with her. Horrified, because however beautiful she is right now, she has never looked more miserable or out of place than in this very moment. The Emnilda in his memories seems a thousand times more vibrant than the woman standing before him. He can see her clearly, despite how many years have passed. They had first met when he was younger, much younger, barely old enough to take on the world one tavern at a time. She was in the back of some nameless shithole, crying her eyes out. She’d been so distraught that she hadn’t noticed him sit down across from her, or that he was covered in bits of rotting produce. Even in the midst of a hell of a mid-youth crisis, she was so stunning that when she finally looked up to see who shared her booth that he had been truly lost for words. Jaskier has always had a knack for seeking out beautiful, broken people.
Emnilda, princess Emnilda of some kingdom or another, she had said she was. He asked her why she was crying, even though asking women why they were crying was playing with fire. She was to be betrothed and married in short order, she explained, and looked slightly comforted by the fact that someone, even a stranger, wanted to listen to her speak. She didn’t want to be married, not then or ever, not when there was so much of the world to explore, so she had run away. Jaskier had said that he understood, because he had, and sang her a song about growing up and escaping. It was one of his firsts, composed on the wagon ride he’d hitched on the way out of his town.
And because Jaskier is not only charming but also a good friend some of the time, the two of them had left the rundown tavern the next morning and had set out for whatever village they stumbled upon next. They spent a month or five at large in the continent, until, as if by fate, they ended up returning to Emnilda’s kingdom by accident, and her parents were so overjoyed to see her they forgot all about her galavanting about in a most undignified manner. Of course, they immediately insisted on marrying her off, anyway. Jaskier had offered to sneak her out of the castle, but Emnilda had waved him off, and said the best thing he could do for her would be to play at the wedding ceremony. He did, and hid his tears quite valiantly in the sleeves of his doublet. There is the vision of her that has stayed with him: laughing through dance after dance at her own wedding, blaming the flush of her cheeks on the overflowing wine. Whispering to anyone and everyone that she was in love.
It’s no wonder he didn’t recognize the woman before him as one of his first friends. Her laughter is gone, replaced with a furrowed brow and watering eyes. She seems like a hollow version of herself, withdrawn and receding. The stark contrast is almost too much for him to bear. “Emmy,” Jaskier says, and pulls her into a hug again, this one genuine.
He’s about to start crying and then punch the king in the face when he sees how stiff Geralt is in his chair, watching the two of them like he would watch an approaching kikimora. Jaskier rolls his eyes internally.
“Geralt,” he says pleasantly, ignoring the king who really should be making the introductions, “this is one of my oldest friends , Queen Emnilda. We met when I was just embarking upon my illustrious musical career.” He locks eyes with him, and tries to convey no, we did not fuck, so knock it off with his gaze. Geralt at least has the decency to deflate. “Emnilda,” Jaskier continues, “this is my Witcher, Geralt.”
Geralt doesn’t even react to that statement, which is interesting. Supremely interesting, really, considering the fact that Geralt resents even being seen as someone’s acquaintance. He can’t ponder the implications any further because the poor excuse for a man at the other end of the table splutters.
“Emnilda,” the king says angrily. “You know this-- this bard?” Jaskier narrows his eyes. Rude. He’s not just some bard in a dirty tavern somewhere any longer. He’s renowned. He’s got fans.
“Casimir,” the queen returns icily. “Of course I know him. He’s not just some bard , he’s Jaskier. My friend and favorite musician, who played at our wedding.” Even Geralt winces slightly at her tone. The king looks appropriately ashamed. “Jas, darling, when you’re done with this ‘business’, come find me, and we’ll catch up. Princess Pivetta’s been dying to hear you live, you know.” And with that, Emnilda leaves, without so much as a backwards glare at her sorry excuse for a husband.
The room is silent in her wake. Geralt seems content to stew in the awkwardness like he always does, and Jaskier thinks it an apt punishment for the king, so he makes no move to encourage conversation.
King Casimir puts his head into his hands, nearly displacing his wine goblet with his elbow. Jaskier frowns at his crown and his messy hair.
“That,” the king says, “is why I summoned you, Witcher.”
“For relationship advice? ” Jaskier asks before he can stop himself. He’s still working on his temper. And this king should be counting his lucky stars Jaskier hasn’t abandoned all pretense and broken a lute over his head. “You want to ask the great White Wolf , the mighty slayer of beasts and demons, for marital counseling? He hasn’t had a relationship since-- actually, Geralt, have you ever had a relationship based off of anything other than a saviour complex? What do you think they do at Kaer Morhen, trust falls? Discuss healthy boundaries and communication? You think they all get together and willingly talk about their feelings? Do you really think that--”
“Jaskier.” Ok, he might have gone a little too far. Geralt looks vaguely constipated.
The king coughs, avoiding meeting Jaskier’s gaze. “No, I don’t want ‘relationship advice’. I have a, er, different request.”
That’s a shame, Jaskier thinks. You really fucking need all the help you can get with your marriage. He’s had one-night-stands with more open communication than this.
“I would like,” the king starts, and takes a deep breath, “for you to retrieve for me the Heartstring.”
Once again, the room is silent. Jaskier would make a witty remark, but he has no idea what the hell a “Heartstring” is. Geralt obviously does, because he looks physically pained at it being mentioned.
“No.” Geralt says, and stands. He must remember that Jaskier is not going to get out of his chair with all of his dignity intact, so Geralt pulls his chair out for him so they can both walk for the door. Jaskier is exceedingly confused. Geralt never denies a job, particularly not for royalty who can pay substantially more than ten commoners with haunted wells. Geralt has his hand reaching for the door when the king stands, too.
“Wait!” He cries pathetically. “I’ll pay you whatever you want.”
That gets Jaskier to stop, because hello, whatever he wants? That’s a pretty dangerous thing to say, especially to a Witcher living from job to job. Geralt, however, opens the door.
“Geralt,” Jaskier hisses. “What the fuck?” Geralt wouldn’t refuse a job on Jaskier’s behalf, would he?
Geralt looks at him angrily, then even more angrily back at the king. “I said no . I won’t do it.”
“One million gold pieces.” The king says. Jaskier’s hand twitches so hard he accidentally plucks a string on his lute.
“No.” Geralt says. Jaskier gapes at him.
“Two million, then. An estate. A place at court. Anything. Name your price, Witcher.” The king says desperately, and runs his hand through his tangled mass of hair, barely managing to keep his crown on his head. “I’ll give you anything.”
Holy fuck, Jaskier mouths to himself.
“No.” Geralt says, and stalks off into the hallway.
Jaskier whips his head back around to look at the king, who looks just as dumbfounded as he feels. Geralt is not in the habit of turning down jobs. Jaskier doesn’t think Witchers are even allowed to do that, contractually. There is probably some sort of blood oath mixed in with all the creepy rituals of Witcher training. Or at least Geralt’s own inflexible moral code, which has sworn him to certain, er, undesirable situations before.
“Bard,” the king says desperately. Normally Jaskier would snap something pithy about actually having a name, but he’s kind of freaking out internally because Geralt just fucking left him in this dusty castle and turned down work when three weeks ago Jaskier had to stop him from boiling his own boot leather in a fucking stew. “This is urgent,” the king continues, oblivious to Jaskier’s crisis. Typical self-absorbed royalty. “You must convince him. I’ll give him anything. I’ll give you anything!”
That’s really a bad thing to say, considering Jaskier’s marked lack of self-control and also of worldly possessions. He could really do with a nice lute case so that Geralt can stop messing up the wood with dirt and assorted monster guts. Geralt would probably put his foot down about a carriage, but it really would be so much more convenient for everyone…
He can imagine the two of them in style, traveling because Geralt’s thing for slaughtering beasts is just a personality quirk and not the only way he can survive. Touring the continent at leisure, getting sparkly things at the markets, holding hands as they-- ok, Geralt would never hold his hand. He “needs it to defend himself at all times” or whatever. The point is, neither of them are in a position to be turning down half a ducat, much less whatever a king can afford to splash out. He swallows.
“I’ll talk to him.” Jaskier says, and tries to escape. The king only looks slightly appeased, and overwhelmingly depressing. Jaskier’s three quarters out of the door when the king starts speaking again.
“If it would help to know,” the king starts, his voice cracking, “it’s for my wife. It’s the only way.”
Jaskier shuts the door without acknowledging him, and speed walks down the hall. He tries to retrace his steps back out of the castle, but the lack of decor is messing up his sense of direction. Every drab stone wall looks the same as every other drab stone wall. Where was that mold splotch he saw on the way in? He’s cursing the royal interior designer when he stumbles into the main entrance, where Queen Emnilda is wistfully staring out at the courtyard. She turns as his footsteps echo on the stone.
“Jaskier, my old friend. Are you leaving so soon?” She says mournfully. Her voice is so sad and withdrawn that Jaskier can’t even think of a reply. Good gods, what happened to her? She looks like a painting about poetic grief, for Melitele’s sake. He walks over to give her a fierce hug, cursing his own selfishness for not coming to visit sooner. He can’t abandon her here, not after seeing how miserable she is. After the wedding, she had been so happy, practically overflowing with joy and gushing over true love. Jaskier makes an impulse decision.
“I’m not going. I’ve just got to work something out with Geralt.”
Emnilda tilts her head, considering, but then nods. “I understand. Traveling can be hard on any relationship. Why don’t you both stay in the castle? We have more than enough empty rooms.”
Jaskier really wants to correct her, say that he and Geralt are absolutely not in a relationship, but the prospect of staying in a bedroom with an actual mattress and mattress frame and curtains instead of a glorified pigsty with a chamber pot is overwhelming, so he pats Emnilda on the arm and thanks her for her generosity and tells her he’ll be back in time for supper, which makes her beam. Then he goes outside to find Geralt.
“Geralt,” he calls out to the stables. “I know you didn’t actually leave me here! That would be rude!”
“Jaskier,” comes Geralt’s voice from behind. “What are you doing. Let’s go.” Jaskier turns, startled, and finds him leading Roach out of the castle gates. He has to quicken his pace to catch up.
When they leave the castle gates behind and make toward the village, Geralt seems to remember that Jaskier is ill-disposed to walking medium-to-long distances, and picks him up by the waist to settle the bard on Roach’s back.
“Hey!” Jaskier says. “You’re supposed to ask before you pick someone up like that! And I can walk, you know, it’s not that far. I’m not a child.” He’s pouting like one, but thankfully Geralt doesn’t comment.
“You’ll ruin your shoes,” Geralt mumbles, eyes straight ahead on the path.
Jaskier looks down. Sure enough, he is wearing his blue satin ones with intricate beading that match his doublet wonderfully. The mud on the dirt path would surely ruin the fabric, and Jaskier had spent months saving up for them. Geralt had been there when Jaskier finally made the purchase. His heart does something odd and stabby but warm at the same time when he realizes that Geralt notices these things. It’s so easy to assume that Geralt tunes out every part of the world not actively trying to kill him, but that’s not true. At least, not when it comes to Jaskier’s habits or his tastes or his stupid fabric shoes that aren’t even important.
Geralt leads them back to the village tavern, which only surprises Jaskier until he sees that Geralt looks like he needs about ten pints of the strongest alcohol available. The lines of his face are solemn, a look usually reserved for after a particularly gruesome battle. Jaskier has never been patient to begin with, but he’s dying to know what could make Geralt so distressed just by being mentioned. The Witcher’s emotions have to be strong to present themselves visually.
Despite it being a bright and cheery springtime mid-afternoon, the tavern is dark and cave-like. The bar faces the entrance, and various unsturdy-looking wooden tables are scattered around the room, some occupied and others waiting for patrons. Jaskier takes comfort in that every tavern on the continent looks exactly the same. They settle into a booth in the back so Geralt can watch the door and Jaskier can watch the other bar patrons gossip. Old habits. He waves over a barmaid.
“We just ate,” Geralt says.
“I know you’re still hungry,” Jaskier replies snootily, because if he’s still hungry, Geralt must be ravenous. He doesn’t think Witchers can be full, especially Witchers who are accustomed to eating nothing for extended periods of time. Geralt hums at him, but lets Jaskier order anyway.
Geralt is silent until the food and drinks come, then silent as he eats. They’re still sitting in silence when the barmaid returns to take away their empty dishes. Jaskier’s used to Geralt not speaking, of course, but it’s aggravating when Jaskier knows there’s something they urgently need to discuss.
Jaskier sets down his pint with slightly more force than usual, and Geralt’s head comes up from gazing absently at the grain of the table. “Geralt,” Jaskier begins, his tone aiming for stern but falling somewhere around exasperated. “I know it’s against the Witcher Code of Honor, but for once in your life, would you please tell me what the hell is going on?”
Geralt’s brow furrows. He’s probably going to start explaining that Witchers don’t have a Code of Honor or something, so Jaskier cuts him off. “Why are we running away?”
That makes Geralt really frown. “We’re not running away.”
“Yes we are,” Jaskier snorts. “You never turn down a job.”
Geralt looks angry, but Jaskier knows by now that it’s actually confusion. “I’ve turned down jobs before.”
“No you haven’t.” Honestly, why would Geralt question him on this? It’s literally Jaskier’s job to keep track of Geralt’s.
“What about that old man in Kaedwen?”
Jaskier shakes his head. “With the haunted grain silo that turned out to be that thing with the fangs? No, you took that job. You refused payment for that job, because all the blood ruined his grain store.” Geralt looks shocked.
“That can’t be right,” Geralt mumbles. “I say no all the time.”
“Geralt,” Jaskier says gently, because it must be hard for the White Wolf to realize he’s really the White Fluffy Bunnyrabbit, “all you do is help people. You never turn away anyone who needs you.”
Geralt slaps his hand on the table. “What about that noble from Cintra? I said no, and then I punched him in the face.”
Why does he even bother with this man? “That’s because his ‘job’ was killing an innocent family so he could usurp their land.” Geralt narrows his eyes. “You punched him because he tried to take a sip of your beer. He was piss drunk.”
“What about--”
“Geralt. You always take the job. Trust me. Either you need the money, or you need to soothe whatever instinct you have to protect the weak. This is the first time you have actually refused and meant it, and I would like to know what the fuck is up .” Jaskier says.
Geralt doesn’t seem satisfied, but then he never is. “This is a fool’s errand,” he says. “Only those with a death wish would do it. Witcher or not, doesn’t matter.”
“Why?” asks Jaskier.
Geralt gives him the “I’m done explaining” face. “It’s impossible.”
Jaskier rolls his eyes. “ What’s impossible?”
“Getting the Heartstring.” Geralt replies, like Jaskier is stupid.
“Which is?”
Geralt gives a sigh that can only be described as long suffering. “A myth. Legend says there’s a forest in the west that is infested with demons, and anyone who enters is eaten.” Geralt scowls. “It’s not true.” There’s more of a story here, Jaskier knows.
“But?”
“But everyone who’s tried has never come back out. Including Witchers.” The way he says ‘Witchers’ has a shiver going up Jaskier’s spine.
“So why won’t you do it? You’ve faced worse odds.”
“No.” Geralt says simply, like that solves everything.
They lapse back into silence, the chatter of the bar as it fills like white noise. Geralt is lost in thought, or maybe counting the bubbles at the bottom of his glass. Jaskier is thinking about what the king said.
“The king said it was the only way to help his wife.”
Geralt snorts at that. “She needs help, but not from a Heartstring.”
Jaskier glares at him. Geralt stares back, realizes that Jaskier is too stubborn to budge without an explanation, and sighs again.
“The Heartstring is supposedly a magical thread made from the heart tendons of the pure.”
Jaskier must look horrified, because Geralt rolls his eyes. “The pożeracze, the demons, eat the hearts of the impure. They save the heart of the pure to make the Heartstring.”
Jaskier wants to throw up. “And we want the human organ string why? ”
“It’s magic. They say it can bind two souls together.” Somehow, it seems like that concept is the one that makes Geralt the most uncomfortable.
Jaskier wrinkles his nose. “Don’t we already have love potions? Or spells?”
“Not as effective. The Heartstring is supposed to be one of the darkest forms of magic. It doesn’t wear off, and it can’t be reversed. It will even bind two unwilling souls.”
“Hm,” Jaskier says, even though usually that’s Geralt’s line. “You’re right.”
Geralt looks shaken. “What?”
“You’re right,” Jaskier says again. “We definitely shouldn’t do this. It sounds entirely unethical.”
“Unethical?” Geralt says, like he’s never heard the word before.
Jaskier frowns at him. “Yes, unethical. Especially if the king wants to use this Heartstring business to keep him tied to Emnilda.” Jaskier has a (well-cultivated) reputation for being a romantic, but he can’t stand coercion of any form. That’s the opposite of romantic. A permanent bond between two unwilling souls creeps him out. Especially if one of those souls is a friend trapped in a dreary, depressing castle with a dreary, depressing husband.
“Hm,” Geralt says.
“Well, that about decides it,” Jaskier declares, and stands up. He places his coin sack on the table, and pats Geralt on the head.
“Decides what? Where are you going?” Geralt asks.
Jaskier waves him off, and starts walking. “I’m going to go facilitate a royal divorce.”
He isn’t even out of town by the time Geralt catches up to him with Roach. That’s a good thing, because for a moment Jaskier had thought he was going to have to do this alone, and his feet are hurting just looking up at the hill where the castle is. Geralt reaches down from Roach’s back and pulls Jaskier up with one arm. Showoff.
“You can’t just force a king and a queen to divorce,” Geralt says gruffly.
“Don’t underestimate me,” Jaskier replies.
“Do you even have a plan?”
Jaskier narrows his eyes. Fucking Witchers. “ You never have a plan.” It’s a miracle Geralt even remembers his swords half the time before charging into some fight. Running about the country, chopping off heads willy-nilly. Ridiculous, really. Geralt’s probably only accompanying Jaskier back to the castle because he secretly likes all the drama. The image of a courtly Geralt in a powdered wig returns again, and Jaskier smiles despite himself.
They’ve probably spent too much time together, because he can feel Geralt frowning. “I have training and experience ,” Geralt says sullenly. “What are you going to do, confess an affair to the entire court so the king leaves her?”
Jaskier scoffs incredulously. “Ger, we talked about this! We did not and will never fuck.”
“We didn’t talk. You wiggled your eyebrows at me. While she was hugging you.”
“ You of all people should know that that is a valid method of communication. Anyway, you big baby, you’ll not have to lie about me being a eunuch again, because Emnilda and I are extremely platonic. Well, we kissed once, but we were very drunk and camping out in the middle of the woods. Everyone does that.”
“Hm,” Geralt says, in a way that implies that he has never, ever done such a thing. “So what are you going to do?”
“Encourage Emnilda’s sense of self-worth so she’ll leave Casimir herself. She deserves better than some ugly castle and some ugly husband who can’t even shave properly.” Jaskier says. He definitely imagines Geralt’s hand touching his chin self-consciously. “I’m sure she’ll be disgusted when I tell her that her husband plans to use a magic string to trap her into eternal serfdom of the heart.” Holy shit, what an excellent ballad title. Serfdom of the Heart, he mouths to himself. E-minor, probably, with a nice anapestic trimeter. He’s such a poet.
“What if that doesn’t work?” asks Geralt.
“What if what doesn’t work?” Jaskier says, still thinking about words that rhyme with “scheming husband”.
Geralt sighs. “Your plan.” Oh, right.
“Don’t be daft. Of course it will work. I’m going to go to her directly and we’ll take tea. It will all be settled by dinner. Or, wait, it should be settled after dinner, so we can eat at the castle. And then I’ll advise her to sleep on it so we can each take a room for the night, too.”
“Hm.” Geralt doesn’t exactly approve, he can tell, but he’s not going to turn down a free meal and a warm bed. They continue up the hill for a while, each lost in thought. The castle is just as drab as it was when they left.
To his credit, the stable boy only looks slightly perplexed when they reappear in the castle gates. As they walk into the main hall, Jaskier claps Geralt on the shoulder.
“Well, I’m off to find Emnilda.”
Geralt looks betrayed. Jaskier rolls his eyes. “Don’t give me that look. You would die of boredom if you accompanied me. And your smell would certainly drive her off. No, it’s best for you to find King Casmir, and find out whether I need to cut off the crown jewels .”
Geralt wrinkles his nose. “You’re disgusting.”
“You love it,” Jaskier calls back to him, already walking off to find a staircase or someone to tell him where to find the queen’s chambers. Gods, this castle is a labyrinth.
He turns down a hallway and almost bumps into a maid carrying a tea service. “Oh, good,” Jaskier says, ignoring how quickly the maid’s face pales. “Are you taking this to the queen?”
“Yes, milord,” she says. The china rattles on the tray.
“I shall follow you, then.” He takes a pastry and bites into it. The maid looks positively horrified. “She won’t mind,” Jaskier says with his mouth full. They walk together in silence after that, Jaskier content in savoring the sweet, and the maid obviously trying not to look at him. It’s off putting, really. He’s not used to people not looking.
Finally, they arrive at a wooden door only slightly larger and more ornate than all of the other large and ornate wooden doors they’ve passed. The maid knocks twice. Jaskier opens the door without waiting for a response.
“Emnilda, darling,” he says. “I’ve come to rescue y--”
Emnilda is crying on her bed. She looks up sharply, and pretends not to be crying with such studious grace that suggests experience and practice. “Oh,” she breathes softly. “Is it supper already? Please tell everyone I’ll be down presently.”
“‘Tis only tea, milady,” the maid says before Jaskier can remember how to use his words. It is one thing to suspect an old friend’s crushing unhappiness, but quite another to be confronted with undeniable evidence of a broken heart.
“I’ll take this,” Jaskier says gently, and takes the tea service. He sets it down at the foot of Emnilda’s bed.
“I do apologize, milady,” the maid says. “I dinna know if he were an evil spirit, but he ate a pastry, so I supposed he weren’t one, after all. It’s jus’ been such a time since we had any visitors, is all. ‘Specially young men.”
Emnilda gives her a watery smile. “He’s an old friend, that’s all. Thank you for bringing him to me.”
Jaskier is partially upset that he was presumed malevolent, but he gives his most charming smile to the maid anyway. “Yes,” he says. “Thank you. I’m so sorry for not introducing myself.” He takes the maid’s hand, and kisses it. “I’m Jaskier.”
“Oh,” she says. “M’name’s Agnes.” She’s blushing. It’s a good sign that Emnilda is not too distressed to refrain from throwing a pillow at him, and Jaskier dodges it with ease, grin widening. Agnes curtsies and leaves quickly. Jaskier tries not to be noticeably smug.
“I’m not sure your boyfriend would be too impressed with you flirting with the maids.”
Jaskier chokes on air, and whips his head to look at Emnilda. She’s smirking through her long hair. Her eyes are ringed with the red stains of tears. “I don’t have a boyfriend!”
Emnilda levels him a stare. “You can’t lie to me. I saw him this morning. Your Witcher, you said it yourself.” She pours tea equally into two cups.
Jaskier toes off his shoes and climbs onto the bed to sit next to her. “He’s my Witcher, not my boyfriend. We’re-- friends. Friends. And anyway,” he says hurriedly, “I am not here to talk about my love life.”
“Well, I have nothing to tell you of mine,” Emnilda says curtly.
Now it’s Jaskier’s turn to glare. “As your old friend, it is my sworn duty to never lie to you, nor to protect you from the truth.” Emnilda snorts. “Sworn and sacred duty,” Jaskier repeats. “To tell you that I have never seen you as miserable in these few hours as I have in my entire time in knowing you. Not even when we first met. I wasn’t jesting, when I came into the room. I am here to rescue you.”
Emnilda turns her face away. “I don’t need to be rescued.”
“Then why were you crying? Why were you such a shell of yourself this morning? What the hell is wrong with your husband? Actually, I don’t care about him. I only care about what has happened to you .” Jaskier hugs her. “Tell me, or I shall make you listen to me sing scales in my falsetto. And then I will cut off your husband’s head for hurting you.” She shudders in his arms, and he can’t tell if she’s crying or laughing. Perhaps both. He’s still internally cursing himself for not visiting earlier, for not thinking of one of the only souls on earth he could reasonably call a true friend. He had been so selfishly absorbed in his own life, and right after Emnilda’s wedding he had met the greatest distraction of all, in the form of a particularly grumpy Witcher.
“The first years were wonderful,” the queen says quietly, like she’s holding back tears. Jaskier squeezes her in what he hopes is a comforting and not restrictive gesture. “You remember how I was before the wedding. When we came back to my kingdom, I found all of the letters he’d written me while I was away. I fell in love with the man in those letters, the way he wrote, the way he shared every part of his soul with me. I was so happy to be married. I swore it was true love.” Jaskier remembers this, remembers her reading excerpts aloud, both of them squealing over particularly romantic bits. One of his next ballads had been the story of star-crossed lovers writing each other love notes.
“Three years ago,” Princess Emnilda continues, “His father decided to retire from the throne. We were all overjoyed, of course; Casimir’s parents wanted to retire to their seaside villa in the East, and we thought--” -- she chokes on her words, then takes a deep breath. “We thought that after Casimir’s coronation, we’d start our own little family. Everything went perfectly, until I became with child. I’d never seen my husband so emotional. So proud. For a month, he commissioned every artisan in secret to completely redecorate the castle, to furnish the nursery especially. I told him it was too early on to celebrate-- my mother had a very difficult time carrying me, and before my marriage she had warned me I might also have trouble. But he wouldn’t listen. He sent out word to his parents almost immediately, bidding them to come back to the castle.”
“That was when the rain started, and wouldn’t stop. The journey from the villa to the castle should have only taken a week, but the conditions on the road were so horrible that the week stretched into two. It stormed for three days and three nights, so fiercely that the entire world was dark. No one dared to leave the castle. On the morning of the fourth day, we heard a crash so loud and terrible that everyone awoke at the same moment. Then there were screams, like the wind had carried up the cries from the souls of the damned. We rushed to the gates, but the rain shrouded us from the outside world. But by breakfast the storms had passed as quickly as they had started, and the sky was blue and clear again. Casimir and his men left immediately to investigate the noise from earlier. They did not come home until the sun had long since set and the moon was high. He found his parents at the bottom of the hill leading up to this castle. They had crashed somehow in the storm, tumbled all the way down to their deaths.”
Jaskier breathes in sharply. Emnilda is silent for a moment, blinking quickly. Her voice is nothing but a whisper. “Casimir changed that day. He was inconsolable. He insisted on dragging his parents’ bodies up to the castle, insisted on digging their graves himself. He went from hall to hall, tearing down decoration after decoration, and after everything was destroyed, he locked himself away. He wouldn’t take anything but alcohol. I was distraught, too. I couldn’t eat, couldn’t sleep, couldn’t do anything but pace and worry and cry and then--” She sobs. “And then I lost the baby.” She looks down, swallowing. The room is filled with a crushing sense of despair.
Jaskier is crying now, too. “I’m so sorry,” he says, for once at a loss for words to adequately express the grief settling in the hollow of his throat.
Emnilda wipes her eyes with a handkerchief. “It’s been like this ever since. We are like strangers now, living on opposite ends of the same castle. I know he blames himself for everything. I know he regrets how he acted towards me, but now it seems like too late to change. He’s never had to ask for forgiveness. He thinks I don’t love him any longer. He wrote me another letter, months ago, saying that he wouldn’t be angry if I packed all my things and left. But the truth is,” she looks up at Jaskier, eyes filled with tears. “The truth is, I could never stop loving him. I don’t want him to hide himself away, to torture himself with useless guilt. It’s true that I wish he had been there for me, that I wish he had held me instead of giving me space. But I love him just as much as I did on our wedding night. And-- and I’m not going anywhere.” She wipes her eyes, mouth upturned but wobbling too much to be a smile.
Jaskier reaches out for her, arms shaking slightly because he always gets less coordinated when he cries. They sit in each other’s arms for a while, until their breathing is slow and steady. Jaskier softly kisses the top of her head. “What can I do?” he asks softly.
Emnilda untangles their limbs and smooths down the skirts of her dress. “I want to show him that I will never leave him. He doesn’t listen to my words. He won’t read my letters. He doesn’t believe that he deserves anyone’s love, much less mine.” She sighs, frustrated. “I’ve been thinking it over for months now, and I have concluded that the best way to prove my forgiveness and my devotion is to hold a ceremony to renew our wedding vows, with a great feast for all of the kingdom.”
Jaskier claps his hands together. “That’s perfect! The ultimate gesture of love’s renewal. I love it. What are we waiting for again?” Emnilda laughs quietly, shaking her head.
“Well, I heard him mumbling in his sleep about something. About the Heartstring.”
“The Heartstring,” Jaskier repeats flatly. “The cursed string made of human organs? That Heartstring? That’s what you want for your epic romantic renaissance?” But as he says the words out loud, he thinks about it. Emnilda was quite the flowery romantic in her youth (truth be told, they both were), and from what he remembers of the king’s love letters, the couple were well matched in that regard. “That would certainly be… dramatic.”
“Romantic, you mean,” Emnilda says, eyes sparkling. “Two lovers bound by the Heartstring are inseparable for all eternity; they feel pain when separated from one another for too long, and cannot be harmed by sickness or age. They live on together, until they die at the same moment. There is no greater symbol of devotion than to be tied together by that magic.”
Jaskier will admit that as far as grand gestures go, it is certainly fantastic. “But how do you know that the Heartstring exists? I thought it was just a legend.”
“I believed that, as well, until I came across a book in the castle library.” She gestures over to an ornately carved wooden writing desk on the other end of the chamber, where an ancient-looking leather book sits ominously. Jaskier blinks at it. “It’s a family record of sorts. Casimir’s great-great-great grandparents had this castle built on this very spot because it was where they held their Heartstring bonding ceremony. This kingdom borders the secret forest of the pożeracze; Casimir’s great-great-great grandfather brought the first Heartstring back as a courtship gift for his great-great-great grandmother.”
Jaskier’s eyes bulge. “A courting gift ? Geralt said not even Witchers left that forest alive!”
“Well, they say that Casimir’s great-great-great grandfather was so in love with his fiancée that he could overcome the dangers of the forest. It was the strength of his love that protected him.”
The two stare at each other for a moment. Jaskier feels like laughing and crying. “Fine. Let’s suppose that his love did protect him from a horde of heart-eating demons. How are Geralt and I going to manage that? We are very much not in love, despite your witticisms about us.”
Emnilda’s brow furrows. “You’re both going to retrieve the Heartstring?”
“Yes-- well, no , but-- isn’t that why Casimir summoned Geralt?”
She huffs. “That might have been his plan, but I was going to intercept the Witcher first to have him escort me to the forest so I could retrieve the Heartstring myself.”
“You what?! ” Exclaims Jaskier. “No!” He pauses. “Absolutely not! That is the worst idea I’ve ever heard, and I met you when I thought that sleeping in barns was avant-garde!”
“That’s not your decision to make,” Emnilda says, jutting out her chin. “You cannot stop me.”
Jaskier rolls his eyes. “I might not be able to stop you , but I most certainly stop Geralt .”
Emnilda gasps. “You would not! I need the Heartstring!”
“Whatever happened to open and honest conversation? Clearly stating your feelings? I won’t deny that I have a flair for the dramatic, but this is excessive.”
“I have already decided to go. I’ve already packed. I’d obviously prefer to travel with a Witcher, but I will go alone if I must.” She’s serious, he can see that plainly in her countenance.
Jaskier stares at her.
“So now you want to get the Heartstring and save the marriage you just swore to destroy not five hours ago,” Geralt says, nonplussed.
“It was the only way to make sure she wouldn’t endanger herself. The journey should only take a week; Emnilda will keep herself busy and safe readying the castle for the ceremony.”
“Ambitious.”
Jaskier glances up at him. They’re alone in a hallway, having said their goodnights already to the king and queen after supper. Jaskier had tactfully ambushed him with his plan of action. The only indication Geralt had been listening was the way his frown deepened with every sentence.
“I know we can do it,” Jaskier says.
“We.” says Geralt.
Jakier scoffs. “Don’t be ridiculous. I can’t go by myself; I don’t know how to read a compass and I hate sleeping on the ground alone.” Geralt scowls at him.
“It’s too dangerous.”
“We’ll be fine.”
“No.”
“Please?” Jaskier asks very nicely. He might even flutter his eyelashes.
“No.”
Jaskier pouts. “What happened to never turning down a job?”
“First time for everything.”
Jaskier does not stomp his foot, but it’s a close call. “I’m going, whether you’re with me or not.”
“Have fun.”
“I will,” Jaskier says petulantly. “And when my heart is violently ripped out of my chest because no one was there to protect me, just remember my death was a sacrifice for the purity and sanctity of true love.”
Geralt exhales very slowly through his nose. His eyebrows are so close together they’re overlapping. Jaskier tries valiantly to contain his victory dance.
“We leave at dawn,” Geralt says stubbornly, even though he knows that Jaskier abhors rising before midday.
“Yes!” Jaskier shouts, jumping up and down. He even grabs Geralt and smacks a kiss onto his cheek. “True love prevails!”