Chapter Text
Jaskier knows he’s going to regret this.
He regrets most things in life. But that’s not entirely his fault, it’s not like life has set things out to be easy for him. And everything’s worked out in the end– yes he’d been cursed for over four decades, yes he’d been in love for two, had his heart broken for half. But now the curse is broken and the fragments of his heart are slowly glueing back together. He’s out on his own, back to square one.
And yet. Another thing he does alot in life is fuck things up, that’s why he has so much regret. But try as he might, he can’t convince himself to turn back now.
Not while an innocent child’s life is on the line.
“You don’t even know her,” Jaskier curses himself out as he cuts through the water. “And she’s not your responsibility. She’s got a witcher, for fucks sake. He’ll get her eventually.”
But Jaskier’s always had a bleeding heart. That’s what makes him such a good bard. And that’s why he’s swimming up this river, speeding towards the Nilfgaardian camp that he knows sits upon its banks.
It all started three nights ago. He’d been wandering out of his cave in a rocky cove next to Kerack, thinking about what to catch for dinner, when he’d felt a stinging pain spear through his side. He’d thought for a moment he’d been attacked by a vicious jellyfish, until he realized there were none around. That meant the pain was Geralt’s.
If it was this bad for him, then it must’ve been life-threatening for Geralt. Heart in his throat, Jaskier dropped everything and left to find him.
He knew it was time for them to be heading up to Kaer Mohren, so he made his way up towards Kaedwen through the Pontar. As he tore past a tiny little town he knew as Mirefield, he ran into a group of river nymphs lounging in a glen.
The second they caught sight of him, they scattered.
“Wait!” He cried, his fin smacking the surface of the water. “Wait, I’m not going to hurt you!”
“Stay away, fucking Siren,” a female hissed, claws digging into the moss and emerald eyes wide with fear and hate.
Jaskier growled. “I’m not–” but the Nymphs were already fleeing. With a frustrated huff, he opened his mouth and sang, “stop.”
Everything froze.
Jaskier drifted towards the female, keeping the spiked fins on his back and sides lowered to show he wasn’t hostile. “I’m not here to hurt anyone,” he vowed. The female’s eyes narrowed incredulously. He ignored that. “I just need information. Has a witcher passed by these waters recently? He has white hair, a brown horse, and a child.”
The female glanced at her friends, peeking nervously out of the water. “Perhaps,” she replied warily.
Jaskier had to withhold another growl. He didn’t have time for this. “Tell me the truth or I’ll make you.”
“There was a battle,” she admitted at last. “A little ways up from here. A large group of Nilfgaardians attacked your Witcher. He killed most of them, clogged the river with the filth of their bodies. But a few escaped and took the girl with them.”
Fuck. “Is he– is he alright?” Jaskier asked, feeling nauseous.
The female shrugged. “He was injured quite grievously. But he got on his horse and galloped away. To where, I can’t say.”
Fuckity fuck. “And the girl, where did they take her?”
“Up the river.” The female pointed. “There’s a Nilfgaard camp up there. They dragged her kicking and screaming.”
Jaskier was going to kill them all. It took a minute to find his voice, but he jerked a nod at the nymph. “Thank you. You’ve been extremely helpful. May your waters be clean.”
With that, he flipped away. As he left, he heard one of the nymphs ask, “what the hell does he want with a witcher?”
“To kill it, probably,” another nymph answered. “That’s all sirens know how to do, isn’t it?”
That was this morning. Now, as the sun begins to graze the treetops, Jaskier finally finds the camp. He sucks in a nervous breath at the sight of it, large and sprawling. The nymph said Geralt had killed many of them, but there’s still a significant amount.
Geralt– gods. Jaskier forces his heart to stop pounding. There’s no way the witcher is dead, he’d be able to feel it. But still, the thought of him being grievously injured somewhere, likely still tracking the princess, makes him want to shake with anxiety.
He forces all those emotions down, though. Now is not the time to hesitate. Somewhere in that camp, Cirillia waits.
He waits until the sky starts to darken, when the scattered spots across his arms, chest and cheeks start glowing a faint blue. Without a sound, he swims up to the tent closest to the water and pulls himself up behind it.
A moment of concentration later, his tail and fins disappear, replaced by normal human legs– well, as normal as can be when they’re the shade of the sky at midday, fading to the darkest depths of the ocean at his feet, all coated in the same glowing spots as the rest of him.
Footsteps make him perk up. A soldier rounds the tent, intent on taking a piss in the water. Jaskier sings a low note and he freezes, eyes glazing.
“Pants off,” Jaskier orders softly. The man immediately strips and tosses him the garment, which Jaskier pulls on. He’s not about to storm an enemy camp buck-ass naked, after all. He sings as he moves, keeping the man unfocused. Then:
“Sleep,” he hisses. The man drops.
One down, many to go.
He takes a deep breath, then steps out and trots right into the camp.
There are soldiers milling about. They glance at him, do a double-take, and rear back in surprise. “Hey, what–”
Jaskier opens his mouth and starts singing. It’s not in a language ancient and primal, one that calls to the souls of the men, and they immediately go limp. He calls them in, forming a line before him, shoulder-to-shoulder as they march towards the center of the camp.
It must look eerie, five soldiers moving silent as death across the grass, unnaturally graceful, eyes empty. That’s why when they stumble upon the next group of soldiers, their faces go pale.
“Attack,” Jaskier hisses.
They strike.
The Nilfgaardians not under his control are hesitant to attack their brethren, making them easy to be cut down. Jaskier continues on his way, pulling more soldiers into his song as he goes. It’s difficult to hold this many at once, so once he sees one too injured to go on, he releases him and takes another.
The screams and yells of men form a beautiful cacophony around him, blending perfectly in the background of his song. A soldier tries to jab him with a spear and he whirls gracefully out of the way before turning and swiping his claws across his throat.
He kills a few more, slashing, stabbing, tearing out their throats and hearts. It’s beautiful, in a way, a lethal waltz under the moonlight. He’s covered in blood, can feel the salt in the back of his throat. It’s incredibly satisfying.
Eventually he finds the center tent. The fighting rages all around, but through the sound he can hear the terrified, fluttering heartbeats from the tent. The entrance is on the other side. He takes his claws and cuts a hole right through the canvas.
“Jesus fuck– what the hell is that?” a voice curses from inside.
“A Siren,” another gasps.
There are four prisoners tied up on the ground. Enemies of Nilfgaard, Jaskier suspects. The second one who’d spoken is a blue-haired male, his slender frame, scaled fingers and wide, cerulean eyes marking him as some sort of mer. A half-nymph, most likely.
They break eye contact as two soldiers burst into the tent, eyes mad with anger and fear. The one in the lead points at him. “There,” he snarls. “Kill it, we have to–”
Jaskier sings a note. Their eyes glaze and they whirl around. Screams arise as they jump back into the frey.
The prisoners all look like they’d shit themselves, if they weren’t all so obviously underfed. The mer shakes his head with a soft, “fuck.”
“What the hell do you want??” Another man demands.
“That’s none of your concern.” Jaskier scans the room. There’s no sign of a blond little girl. With a growl of annoyance, he turns to leave.
But wait. These people- should he free them? They obviously have something against Nilfgaard to be kept prisoner, and as it’s always said, the enemy of one’s enemy is his friend.
He stalks up to the mer. He glares up at him, despite the fear drenching his scent. “Why are you being held here?” Jaskier asks.
“I’m a spy,” he replies after a moment's hesitation.
“You don’t work for Nilfgaard?”
“Fuck no.”
There’s no lie in his voice. With a shrug, Jaskier slashes through his bounds with his claws. While the mer gapes in confusion, he moves onto the next, asking the same.
“I tried to desert.”
“I tried to help him escape after he was captured,” the guy next to him adds.
No lies. Jaskier frees them too and moves on to the last.
“I also tried to desert,” he says.
There’s something about the look in his beady eyes that rubs Jaskier the wrong way. “Why?” he asks softly.
“Work got too much for me.”
“Don’t listen to him, that’s a lie,” comes a voice. To his surprise, the mer is standing a little ways behind him, not having scampered out the second he was freed like the other two. “He’s in here for attempted rape on the General’s daughter.”
The human shoots him a scathing glare. “He’s the only liar here. He’s just pissed I was the one to catch him.”
“Tell the truth,” Jaskier sings.
He goes slack. “It’s been a while. Not a lot of options, in a war camp.” Although his voice is distant, Jaskier can pick up traces of sinister satisfaction.
He stares him down for a second. Then, in one smooth move, he cuts open the ropes.
The man grins. “Well, I should’ve known—“ he cuts off into a gurgle as Jaskier jabs his claws straight into his throat. There’s a horrible rip noise as he pulls the esophagus right out his body. He holds him there for a moment before letting him fall, crumpling to the ground in a pool of blood.
It's splattered all over Jaskier’s face now. He feels a sick form of content at wearing the evidence of his action.
The mer looks terrified, but admirably hides it behind a blank expression. Spy indeed. But—
“Why are you still here?” Jaskier sighs.
He shrugs. “Just curious. I’ve never seen a siren in a blood frenzy before.”
A warning growl rumbles out of his chest before he can stop it. “It’s not a fucking blood frenzy.”
“You sang those men to their deaths.”
“If it was the frenzy, you’d be a pile of bones right now,” Jaskier snaps. “Lucky for you, I didn’t inherit that characteristic.”
The mer blinks, then whistles. “I didn’t know there were Siren half-breeds.”
“Don’t call me that.”
“Hey, It’s not a bad thing. I'm a halfer too. So… you aren’t going to kill me?”
“I’m considering it now,” Jaskier says shortly.
The mer bobs his head. “I guess that’s my clue to leave.” He spins and walks out the tear. Jaskier hears him freeze, and a low “Melitate’s fucking tits.”
Curious, the siren follows him out. The sight that greets him is a horrific one: bodies on bodies on bodies, surrounded by pools of blood, severed limbs and gore and empty eyes. Some men are still alive, groaning weakly as they bleed out.
He feels nothing but content with the sight.
The mer leans to the side and gags. “You don’t call this a blood frenzy?” He demands shakily.
“They have something that doesn’t belong to them,” Jaskier replies, striding past. “And they’re not giving it back.”
“This is a massacre.”
“They’re in my way.”
“Of what?”
“None of your business."
“It’s the girl, isn’t it?”
Jaskier whirls around. A blink of an eye and his claws are around the mer’s throat. “How the hell do you know that?”
“I didn’t,” the mer gasps. “It was— it was just a guess, I know she’s important but I don’t know who she is, I swear.”
His heart, though pounding quick with fear, keeps a steady rhythm. He’s not lying. With a huff, Jaskier lets him drop back to the ground. He bends over and coughs. “I also—“ he wheezes. “I also know where she is.”
Jaskier gently lays his hand on the back of his neck. It would be a sweet action, if not for the claws an inch away from his life source. “What’s your name?”
The mer swallows. “Elias.”
“Take me to her.”
“Right, sure. This way.”
They tromp through the camp. When they encounter more soldiers, Jaskier sings them into attacking each other, leaving trails of carnage in their wake. His throat is starting to itch from all the power he’s using, but he ignores it.
Elias leads him to the very corner of camp. Over the sounds of battle, Jaskier can pick out a heartbeat. It beats at the slow and steady pace of deep sleep. Without stopping his singing or taking his hand off Elias, Jaskier sticks his head into the tent.
Cirillia lays on a bedroll, golden hair spilling around her pale little face. Her eyebrows are furrowed and arms tense where they’re bound tightly to a pillar at her back. He gently touches her cheek, and she doesn’t stir. Drugged, then. Fury bubbles up in his chest.
He quickly lifts her into his arms and carries her out the tent, careful not to scrape her with his bloody claws. If Elias is stunned by how tender he’s being, he doesn’t mention it. He also doesn’t ask who she is, despite the curiosity in his eyes.
“Thank you for your help,” Jaskier tells him, a clear dismissal.
Elias dips his head. “You saved my life. I owe you a debt.”
“Consider it fulfilled. May your rivers never dry.”
“May your depths be endless in bounty.”
The two Mer trade one last nod of acknowledgement before parting. Jaskier trots through the camp that is now filled with only the eerie groans of the dying. He ignores the sound, the tightness it brings to his chest and focuses only on the sleeping girl in his arms, clutching her like the beacon of light she is in this shithole.
He runs through the woods for what must be hours. There’s a chance some Nilfgaardians had escaped and alerted their higher-ups about his attack, and he had no interest in being near enough to find out if that’s true. Just when the sky starts to brighten, he stumbles upon a small stream. It’s about time he rests anyway, so he leans Cirillia against a nearby tree and goes to dunk himself in the water.
Once every inch of him is scrubbed clean of blood, he focuses on catching some fish. Once that’s done, he sets up a small fire and works on shucking off the scales with his claws.
It’s while he’s setting the fish over the fire that he hears a sharp little gasp.
Cirillia blinks at him once, twice. Then she sucks in a huge breath and leaps to her feet.
Jaskier surges to catch her as she sways dangerously. “Woah, princess.”
“Who the hell are you?” She demands, voice slurred slightly. She aims a sluggish punch towards his lower regions, which he smoothly avoids. “How do you know who I am??”
“My name’s Julian. I’m not here to hurt you,” he promises, lowering her to the ground when her knees give out. He kneels alongside her to seem less intimidating. “I saved you from the Nilfgaardians.”
“Why?”
“I’m– I was a friend. Of Geralt.”
“Geralt doesn’t have any friends,” she spits.
Jaskier lets out a startled laugh. “You’re right. I shouldn't have called it that– I meant acquaintance. My name was Jaskier.”
“The bard?” Cirillia wonders, eyes narrowed. “But Jaskier’s supposed to be human.”
“I was, for a while. I was cursed to be that way. Geralt didn’t know.”
“I think you’re lying.”
Jaskier sighs, but he understands. It’s good that Geralt raised her to be this distrusting, it’s necessary in a world so out to get her. As the two eye each other warily, he wracks his brain for some way to make her trust him.
“Here,” he decides at last. He pulls out the dagger he’d stuck in the waistband of his stolen pants, placing it in the grass within her reach. “That’s the only weapon on me, you can have it. If it seems like I’m going to do something, feel free to stab me through the heart.”
She quickly scoops it up, unsheathing it. “Silver,” she mutters.
His smile is empty. “Right.”
Cirillia eyes him up and down. She looks exhausted, confused, terrified and fighting hard not to show it. Jaskier bites his lip to hide the pitying expression that’s sure to grace his face. After a long moment, she lowers the dagger and shuffles the slightest bit closer to the fire. “You said you’re a bard? Prove it.”
Jaskier arches a brow. “You want me to sing?”
“Why wouldn’t you?”
He laughs and oh dear gods, she doesn’t know he’s a Siren. “Sure, um. What would you like?”
“Something only Jaskier would know.”
He immediately launches into Toss a coin. Ten years since he last sang it, but the words float quickly to the surface of his mind. Except the princess quickly shakes her head. “That doesn’t count. Everybody knows that song.”
In Jaskier’s opinion, the way he sings it is far superior to the way anyone else does, his style so unique it should be easily recognizable. But he supposed Cirillia wouldn’t know that. He wracks his brain again. After a moment, a memory comes to him. He opens his mouth, and this time, it’s for a soft lullaby.
He sings of trees and forests, of oceans and golden sands and lions tumbling about. Little lions, with fur like spun gold and eyes like stars, bright enough to rival the sun. Of a mother whose love for her shines even brighter. Of a wolf with fur like fresh snow, who watches over her, never close but never far. Who is waiting for destiny.
It’s beautiful, and sweet, and haunting. A wistful echo of what no longer is.
By the time he closes his mouth, Cirillia’s eyes are shiny. “How do you know that song?”
“I wrote it as a gift for your mother, for her to sing to you.”
“She told me she heard it from a buttercup.”
Jaskier chuckles. “Pavetta always had the worst nicknames for everybody.”
“Oh.” Her eyes widen. “Jaskier.”
“That’s right.”
“So you knew my mother?”
Jaskier nods. “We were friends. I… we met a few years before you were born. I’d been invited to play at an event she’d also been invited to. She was so interested in my songs. Always wanted to travel the world– she would’ve made a great bard, she had the most extraordinary voice,” he chuckles sadly. “I spent much time in Cintra, by her request. Your grandmother never really liked me, but she wouldn’t kick me out. Well, not until the betrothal feast.”
He glances meaningfully at her, but she just looks confused. “Did Geralt ever tell you about how you were claimed?”
“No.”
“Good gods,” he groans, rolling his eyes to the heavens. “Of course he didn’t, the great oaf.”
Cirillia scowls. “He had better things to do.”
“Well since I don’t, would you like me to–”
“Yes,” she says eagerly. Jaskier bites her lip against the smile that wants to erupt. She already looks embarrassed enough, a blush spreading over her pale cheeks.
Leaning back into a more comfortable position, he begins his tale. “She sent me a letter, one year while I was on the road with Geralt, inviting me to perform at her betrothal feast. Of course, I couldn’t say no…”
Jaskier explains the whole thing in great detail to her. The party, her father, her mother’s powers, how Geralt had claimed the law of surprise– in a joking way, not expecting it to come true.
He leaves out the part afterwards, how Geralt had cursed him out for ‘forcing him along to that stupid party’ and how they’d split up and not seen each other for almost two years after that.
Instead, he asks Cirillia how she and Geralt found each other. Her reply is short, but it’s obvious the moment means a lot to her, how he’d been waiting with his arms out for her to run into. “It was because of the song that I knew him,” she admits quietly. “I was in danger, and the white wolf was there to save me.”
And Jaskier smiles, because that had been the whole point.
After a while, Ciri has grown comfortable enough to sheath her knife and take the fish he offers her. He lets her pick and pretends not to notice the way she sniffs suspiciously at it. She tears into it as ravenously as the animal she’s named after, and Jaskier feels anger once again spark in the pit of his stomach. It makes it a little easier to swallow that he’d ripped those fuckers to shreds.
Once they’ve eaten their fill, Jaskier puts out the fire and gets to his feet. “We should get moving. I don’t know if there are Nilfgaardians after us, but I’d rather not find out.”
“Where are we going?”
“Back to where you were captured. I’m hoping we’ll find Geralt somewhere close to that. Do you remember if you were near any town?”
“Yes, we were staying in Mirefield. Is he– is he alright?” she asks in a small voice. “There were so many soldiers.”
“Of course he is. He’s Geralt, he always finds a way through things,” Jaskier replies firmly. Even though, deep down, he’s not so sure.
The duo make their way east, Jaskier in the lead with Ciri trailing a few paces behind, still clutching her dagger. Occasionally his head will whip around from some snap or rustle of a moving animal, and she’ll go tense as a spring. He tries not to do it so much once he notices.
Eventually, her pattern of footsteps gets increasingly interrupted as she stumbles over branch and root. When it becomes more stumble than walk, Jaskier stops.
“Shall we take a break?”
“No,” Ciriliia snaps. “I’m fine.”
“If you say so.” Jaskier replies indulgently. Meanwhile, an idea pops into his head. He strains his ears and in the distance, hears the sounds of travelers walking along a path. He sets off at a slower pace in that direction.
They pause just beyond the treeline. There’s a dirt path winding through the trees, the connection between a town and stretches of farmland. Jaskier can hear the sound of hooves approaching and the off-key whistling of a farmer.
“What are we doing?” Cirillia questions curiously.
Jaskier places a hand on her shoulder. He immediately draws it away when she jumps, going sheepishly to cross his arms across his chest. “I’m going to get us a horse.”
“How?”
He gestures towards the farmer, now visible in the distance. Cirillia gapes. “You’re going to steal it?”
“No! I’ll reimburse him, obviously,” Jaskier says, pulling the sack of coin he’d nicked off one of the dead Nilfgaard soldiers on his way out from him pocket. “I have some human decency.”
“He’s not going to just let you buy it off him.”
He sighs. “Alright, then maybe it is a bit of thievery. Now, I’m about to do something that might be a bit confusing. Please don’t run away. Or stab me. Also, cover your ears.”
She looks skeptical, but obeys. Once he’s made sure her fingers are properly stuffed in there, he opens his mouth and bursts into song.
Singing sounds different to regular singing. Unlike with the song he’d sang for her earlier, this song, Cirillia won’t be able to understand. It’ll pull at her, swirl around her until she can taste the magic against her teeth, but the words will be as slippery and elusive as a fish.
Jaskier sings for the man to dismount, sings for him to drift his way over, blinking dreamily. He swaps the horse’s reins for more than enough pieces of coin before singing the man to continue down the road, only releasing it when he’s far away enough.
The horse, which has a stunning speckled grey coat, snorts when Jaskier places a hand on his muzzle. “Aren’t you a pretty boy,” he coos, giving him gentle pets. “What’s your name? Maybe I should give you a new one, no doubt that farmer has the same poetic talent as a piece of rock. Or a Witcher.” He pauses for a second, thinking. “How about– how about Pegasus?”
The horse snorts doubtfully.
“Oh come on,” Jaskier complains. “At least it’s not a bug.”
Pegasus eyes him a little longer before dipping down to nose at his knees. Jaskier takes that as acceptance. “Good boy.”
He turns back to Cirillia, gesturing for her to go on, only to still at the flash of her dagger aimed towards his throat. “Really?” he sighs. “I thought we’d moved past this.”
“What the hell are you?” she cries, fear and desperation evident.
Jaskier takes a step back, leaning against Pegasus to give her some feeling that she’s cornered him, and is in power.. “I’m half siren,” he explains evenly. “I can put people under spells with my song.”
“Am I under a spell?”
Jaskier can’t help it– he snorts. “My song only affects people if I’m actively singing. Which I’m not. You can try covering your ears if you don’t believe me,” he adds.
Cirillia’s eyes flicker to his face, down to her dagger, and to the claws on his hand. “My teachers said sirens are bloodthirsty and evil.”
He withholds a wince. “You teacher was right. Thankfully, since I’m only half, I have no desire for human blood, or any blood, really. Bit too salty for my tastes.”
A sudden noise makes him grimace. It’s footsteps, hurried and confused. “We better get moving, princess. The man’s coming back for his horse. You can interrogate me later, yeah?”
Without warning, he swoops in and grabs her, depositing her gently on Pegasus’s back. Before she can stick the dagger between his ribs, he’s tugging the reins, leading the horse into the trees. Cirillia just sits in stony silence as he picks up the pace to a quick trot.
Without her on the verge of collapsing on every step, they make good progress. By mid afternoon, he reckons they’ve covered a third of the distance back to the town. They only stop because Jaskier’s throat feels dry as bone as his scales are itching to be dunked in water. Also, he can hear the princess’s stomach rumbling.
“You know how to make a fire?” Jaskier asks as he ties Pegasus to a bush.
Cirillia nods. “Why are we stopping?”
“We should eat. Also, I need a nap,” he announces. “I’m going to go get some fish. If anything happens, scream as loud as you can.”
With that, he takes a few steps towards the lake they’ve stopped next to and drops right in. The gills on his neck slit open, and he relishes in the comforting feeling of breathing through water as his tail snaps into place.
There are a few carp lingering around the lake floor, which he quickly spears through with his claws. With a few powerful beats of his tail, he shoots back up to the surface.
Cirillia is sitting next to the water, blowing air encouragingly onto a tiny, flickering flame– the campfire is exactly the way Geralt used to make it, which feels like a punch of nostalgia and dread in Jaskier’s gut. He ignores it, though, hauling himself onto the shore.
The princess sucks in a sharp breath, eyes blowing wide at the sight of his tail curling gently out of the water. He knows it’s a sight to behold– his scales a deep blue, with whorls of lighter blue that takes on a green hue as it meets his waist and fades into skin. His fins are a shimmering iridescent, flowy and rippling like silk as he unconsciously flicks it back and forth like a nervous cat.
He can’t remember the last time he showed a human his Siren form. This isn’t even the full one– they’d have to go somewhere dark for that, where the freckles that scatter across his pale blue skin light up like stars in the sky and his eyes turn into black voids. It’s said to be as mesmerizing as it is terrifying, he’s told. And he is terrifying, there’s no doubt about that, with the sick claws, deep blue and shiny, that extend from his fingertips.
But Cirillia doesn’t look all too terrified. She eyes his tail with a sense of wonder. When she sees him watching, though, she bites her lip and returns her focus to the fire. He quickly shifts back into his legs, pulls on the pants and pads over to join her.
“You have questions,” Jaskier acknowledges as he starts shucking the fish.
“I don’t.”
“You can ask them, Cirillia. I’m not going to eat you if you do.”
She pouts a little, but an eager light enters her eyes as she twists to face him. “I didn’t know Sirens could walk on land.”
“Most can’t,” he replies. “My father was part fae, so I have some limited form-changing ability.”
“But you don’t look fully human.”
“Like I said, limited.”
“Do you really sing sailors into drowning and eat their souls?”
“Well I haven’t personally.”
“So the legends aren’t true?”
“Oh, they definitely are. I may not be so fearsome, but the full-blooded Sirens– you’d do well to keep away. If there even are any left,” he mutters to himself.
Cirillia’s head cocks. “Earlier, you said you were cursed?”
Jaskier nods. “It’s a long story, and not one I like to think about very much. You’ll have to pardon me if I save it for later, princess.”
They spend the rest of the time in silence. Jaskier finishes cooking the fish, and they eat quickly. As he sweeps aside his neat pile of bones, he feels his eyelids start to drip. Exhaustion weighs heavily on every one of his limbs. He had spent the last few days sleepless, charging against currents up rivers, crossing half the continent in the process. And then he’d sang an entire Nilfgaardian camp to their death, stole a horse and led a girl across a forest. It was a wonder he was even still awake.
“I’m going to rest for a little while,” Jaskier announces with a yawn. “Sit close to me. If you hear any sound, no matter how suspicious, wake me up immediately. Do that too if you get too tired. And don’t let go of that dagger, okay?”
“Okay,” she agrees hesitantly. There’s a strange look on her face as she stares at him, but he’s too busy wriggling for a comfortable position in the grass to figure out what it means. He takes a deep breath, shuts his eyes, and is out like a light.
He wakes up five hours later to Ciri shaking his arm. The fire is out, and the forest is blanketed in the darkness of night. The only light source is the glowing dots across his skin.
She taps them. “That’s really cool,” she yawns.
“Oh,” he blinks, sitting up. “Thank you, that’s very kind. Do you need to take a break?”
“Yeah.” With that, she flops onto the ground. To his immeasurable surprise, Cirillia scoots back until she’s pressed against his side. He can feel the chill of her skin and immediately wraps an arm around her, silently cursing himself out. He’d known that the winter is fast on their heels. He’d forgotten to prepare, and now the poor girl is freezing. So freezing that she’s willing to cuddle up to him, too, after having looking one wrong word away from stabbing him the entire day.
About an hour into her sleep, Cirillia goes stock-still. Her breathing speeds, eyebrows furrowing and soft murmurs coming out of her mouth. Jaskier starts humming under his breath. He mixes in just the slightest bit of magic, spelling her to relax. Eventually, she does, going lax once more. He doesn’t stop humming, though, letting his voice mix in with the harmony of the forest at night.
The second morning starts off different from the first. For one, Cirillia isn’t terrified or wary. It seems that over night, he’s managed to win over at least a little bit of trust.
Perhaps because he’d shown that he trusted her back, Jaskier muses. He fell asleep right next to her and encouraged her to keep her knife. When it’d be so easy for her to take advantage of that— to kill him and run. Whatever the case, she eagerly climbs up on Pegasus when he tells her to.
As they cross through the forest, they even start making conversation. Cirillia is a very curious girl, Jaskier discovers with delight. She is endlessly intrigued about him being a Siren, and about him being Geralt’s bard. He even finds himself singing a few songs he’d written for the man despite having forced them out of his mind the second he’d come down from the mountain. She claps along to each one, joining in when she knows the lyrics, and he feels the weight in his chest that he’s been carrying for so long start to dissipate.
By the third day, he’d even classify them as friends.
“Julian, Julian. Do we have to have fish?” Ciri, which she’s informed he’s allowed to call her, whines.
“If you’d like to hunt, go right ahead,” Jaskier sing-songs back.
“I can hunt! I hunt all the time, with Lambert and Eskel.”
Geralt’s brothers, Jaskier thinks, and feels a jealous sort of pang that she’s gotten to meet them. Which isn’t fair at all, and he hurriedly dismisses the feeling. “Well, we’re on a bit of a time crunch right now, little lion. I’d love for you to show off your prowess, but preferably not while we’re on the run?”
“It’ll be quick! Just a few snares, and we can have a proper breakfast!.
“I don’t think we’ll need to think about breakfast anymore. We’ll probably reach Mirefield before nightfall.”
“What!” she exclaims, shooting up. “Really?
He smiles. “Yes, really. And you’ll be back with Geralt.”
And he would have to leave. Go back to the coast, probably. Which is a shame, he’s really started to enjoy her company.
Ciri goes oddly quiet. “What if…” she starts hesitantly. “What if he’s not there?”
Jaskier pauses. “I had thought about that,” he admits, fingering the leather of Pegasus’ reins. “I’m hoping he went back and found a healer there. Or, he’s trying to track you and we’ll meet him somewhere nearby.”
“What if he went to the Nilfgaard camp?”
He has to hold in a trembling breath. If Geralt saw all that carnage… no, fuck. Jaskier won’t stay long enough to hear what he thinks of it anyway. “Then hopefully he’s tracking us from behind,” he replies cheerily. “Either way, I’m sure you’ll find him. For now, let’s take a break and catch some lunch, shall we?”
He gestures at the river. Ciri groans, but hops off the horse.
She ties him to a tree and sits at the bank, setting up a fire while Jaskier hastily strips and jumps into the water. Every few seconds, he’ll pop his head up to check on her, and is pleased to hear her humming one of his songs under her breath.
It’s during one of these check-ups where it all goes wrong.
Jaskier manages to snatch a passing trout, ending its life with a slash of his claws. He beats his tail once to push himself back to the surface, but halts right before it. He can see the image of Ciri dance and waver in the ripples of the river, the small grin that lights up as the pile of wood starts smoking. An idea sparks in his head.
He sneaks his way closer, eyes glinting deviously. But just as he prepares to jump out and scare the daylights out of her, movement catches his eye.
There’s a hand reaching out of the trees. And it’s going to grab her.
Jaskier doesn’t think. He doesn’t pause to scent the air, to actually look at the owner of the hand– no, his instincts are too busy screaming danger, protect, protect!
So he launches himself out of the water.
Ciri screams as he collides with the figure. His tail whips across the grass, water dripping off his sapphire skin, eyes like pools of ink as he snarls loud enough to shake the earth. He clamps a claw at the base of the attacker’s neck, tearing through strands of black hair, and opens his mouth.
And then he’s flying.
He slams into the ground a few meters away. Jaskier gasps, chest heaving, gills still flaring from his sudden change of environment. Silver flashes and he swipes out, claws clanging against metal. He hisses as it stings. The siren’s assailant is breathing furiously, moves lightning-quick as he swings down with the sword. Jaskier blocks again, but barely.
“Julian!” Ciri screams.
His heart lurches. The fear in her voice– fuck, she needs help! He blindly turns in her direction, scrabbling up.
It’s too late that he remembers his own fight.
He doesn’t feel it at first. He hears it, the satisfied grunt of the attacker, the schhh of the sword sliding through his flesh.
He hears the sound Ciri makes. A wail of sheer panic, so desperate he can’t help but flinch. He tries to push up, to see what’s wrong, but for some reason he’s incredibly sluggish, the world feeling drenched in honey and oh, oh– that’s what’s wrong.
“Fuck,” he mutters, staring at the sword sticking out of his stomach.
And then the screaming starts.
They’re ear-shattering, heart-shreddingly terrible. They won’t stop coming, tearing out of his chest so hard Jaskier thinks his lungs are going to burst.
But that pain doesn’t hold a candle to the fire that races across his skin, through his blood, down to the marrow of his bones. Silver affects monsters in strange ways– it acts like acid, burning through flesh, but in large enough amounts also like poison. Jaskier feels like his body is collapsing in on itself, burning so hot he’ll explode and splatter all over the trees.
“No,” he distantly hears someone gasp. “No, no no no– Julek!”
“Ciri,” a voice rumbles back.
“No,” she snarls. “Get away from him, get back! What the hell did you do??”
“I don’t… Ciri, don’t touch it. It’s a monster.”
“It’s not a monster!” She shouts.
“It’s a siren,” another voice joins in, a female one. “It could still have her under its spell. Geralt, maybe you should hold her down–”
Wait.
What. The. Fuck?”
A spear of clarity shoots through the pain, halting the whirlwind of Jaskier’s mind. Did she just say Geralt?
Oh, destiny truly did have a twisted sense of humor.
“Don’t touch me!” Ciri cries, sounding like she’s slapping him away. “I need to– fuck, Jaskier, I’m sorry. This is going to hurt.”
“Jaskier?” Geralt gasps.
Jaskier’s claws dig into the ground that he arches off of as the sword is suddenly yanked out. There’s a clatter, along with Ciri’s shaking exhale, but he doesn’t hear it. He’s trembling and sobbing, chest heaving too quickly. Something warm and sticky is leaking from his stomach, soaking into the ground.
“Ciri,” Geralt is saying, voice desperate and heartbreakingly soft. “What do you mean by Jaskier?”
“It’s him,” Ciri snaps. “He was Siren all along, and he never told you but he was cursed into a human form. He saved my life, he fought an entire army camp to get to me, and he’s going to die if we don’t help him. Please, please, Yennefer. I’m not lying, I swear. Please.”
“I’ll check,” Yennefer mutters. There’s a light touch on Jaskier’s forehead. Then: “fuck.”
“Is it him?” Geralt demands.
“Yes,” Yennefer replies dazedly. “Fuck. Fuck! Ciri, hold him still. Jaskier– I’m sorry. Brace yourself.”
Jaskier feels a gentle hand on his arm. He smells the sweet tinge of chaos swirling through the air around them. If the pain spikes, he doesn’t feel it, his mind having already reached a separate plane of consciousness.
“He’s going into shock,” Yennefer mutters. “Geralt, get your ass moving! I need bandages, now!”
“I think we should get him in the water,” Ciri gasps. “He said something about that, that he can harness a little magic from it. Maybe it’ll help him heal.”
“We can’t risk more blood loss.”
“Here,” Geralt grunts. “Hold this to the wound, I’ll carry him.”
The girls stuff his wounds with cotton, forcing his guts back into his body. Meanwhile, a pair of warm arms slide under him. Jaskier’s head lolls, and he blearily blinks his eyes open to find his cheek pressed against a firm pec.
“Geralt,” he whispers.
The arms freeze, then tighten. “I’m here. I’m here, bard. You’ll be okay.”
Geralt lowers him down. Jaskier feels the water close over his scales, wrapping him in its familiar embrace, and a great sigh leaves him.
“It’s closing,” says Ciri.
“Not fast enough,” Yennefer replies grimly. “I’ll have to try some more.”
Geralt hasn’t let go of Jaskier yet. He’s kneeling down in the water with him in his arms, and when the Siren manages to force his eyelids up again, the witcher’s soulful, guilt-charged eyes swim into view.
Jaskier’s lips twist. “I never… I never thought,” he wheezes, sentences choppy. “That I’d see this.”
“Shhh,” Geralt scolds.
“I knew you cared about me,” he chuckles.
“Of course I care about you.”
“Coulda fooled me.”
“Jaskier.”
“Geralt,” he mocks, but it comes out as the barest whisper. Jaskier lets his eyes fall shut. He’s getting so, so tired.
There’s a tap on his cheek. “No, no. Stay awake now, bard.”
“Mph.”
“Julek,” Ciri pleads. She’s still holding his hand.
He gives her a watery smile. “It’s alright, darling. It’ll be alright.”
Ciri chokes and bows her head. “Don’t talk like that,” Geralt snaps. If Jaskier didn’t know better, he’d describe his tone as anguished.
“Life’s blessing,” he muses, turning his gaze up to the sky. “I always knew– I was gonna die by your side. Just, not.” he takes a shaky breath. “By your hand.”
“Jaskier,” Geralt despairs.
“Hmm,” he smiles. Forty years isn’t too bad, he thinks. No matter that not all of them were worth it. No matter that the roads he followed weren’t always the most sound, he’s pretty satisfied.
Jaskier lifts his face and feels the sunlight play across his cheeks for the last time before everything turns dark.