Chapter Text
The halls of Ban Ard are barren, cold and unfriendly in a way few things in life are. Julian, excited that he’ll get to ascend as a mage –gods! A mage!– is buzzing with energy. It’s been like that for a while now and because when he buzzes he can get a bit loud and sing-y he leaves the room he shares with Istredd and goes for a walk.
They’re not supposed to leave their rooms after curfew, even if they are technically adults already after so many years in one of the Continent’s finest schools of magic – what utter bullshit – but who cares about something so stupid as curfew anyway? Istredd does. But he doesn’t count i n Julian’s opinion, not really, when he sneaks out day after day to meet his secret girlfriend.
The scenery shifts and he suddenly finds himself outside of the headmaster’s office.
“Julian could potentially bring danger to our order,” Stregobor’s voice says. “It’s not natural, Artorius. That power…”
“Agreed. But it’s not his power that worries me; it’s his egotistical, downright criminal personality.”
Stregobor snorts. “He doesn’t listen to anyone but himself. But what could you expect of the son of a bloody pirate? He was born bad, Artorius. I’m telling you we should be rid of him now that we still can.”
The sounds stutter and glitch and suddenly Julian, no, Rience this time, is fleeing from a burning estate, dimeritium lacing his lungs.
A set-up. A fucking set-up. He didn’t even get to light the fire himself for fuck’s sake!
But why?
Why?
It doesn’t matter why. He has to get out of here, as far away as possible and reinvent himself, much like he did an odd forty years ago. He just wishes he could find a way to pack his belongings without the Guild coming to finish the job – for it’s the Guild that’s framed him, that wants him dead, that much is certain.
He runs and runs and runs as the shadows of his assailants grow impossibly tall and menacing in the corner of his vision, as fire melts into trees, then water, then nothing for a while and –
Wind is whipping Jaskier’s face, and he’s vaguely aware of tears pooling in his eyes as his mind repeats in a taunting chant ‘if life could give me one blessing-’.
Jaskier wakes up with a pounding head and discomfort that can only be associated with the overuse of his chaos.
“Melitele’s fucking tits!” he yelps and springs up, vision swimming like the bastard it is. “I forgot about BBB!”
There’s a surprised little gasp coming from somewhere close to him, he can’t exactly place yet, and then Yennefer speaks up, “What. The. Fuck. Is. BBB?” She stresses every word individually.
An inquisitive hum sounds from his right and he whips his head meeting Geralt’s handsome face.
Oh, right. Oh, perfect. Exactly how he was imagining having this conversation; barely awake somewhere foreign and with a splitting migraine. A shiver runs through him as Geralt continues to look at him with those big, beautiful amber eyes. He averts his gaze, mouth dry and heart pounding fast, meeting Yennefer’s look of tired disapproval.
She cocks an eyebrow.
Good gods, what a woman! She won’t even let him have some water before he has to speak about Burn Butcher Burn.
“Uh, you know, the, uh, the song.” He says eloquently.
She clicks her tongue. “Which of the thousands you got?”
She can’t possibly don’t know! They had a whole bloody conversation about it over shitty alcohol and sewer stench for fuck’s sake! Still, there’s nothing in her eyes that alludes to her knowing. To be fair, they had a shit week and a half and he can’t blame her for forgetting that masterp- that song.
He chokes on the words. “The one- that one-” he mumbles, “the tall mass of land one.”
“What about mountains?” Geralt asks, confusion obvious in his voice, and Jaskier looks down on his own hands. Ah. It appears he’s Rience now. Not that it matters; Julian, Rience, Jaskier… it’s all the same in the end.“Oh,” Geralt says in realisation and Jaskier would very much like to combust on the spot. “The mountain.”
He can’t keep hiding, he concludes, and breaths in deeply, lungs hot from the cold winter air. He turns to face Geralt properly this time. “So, yeah, I, uh, belatedly realised I did some damage in my heartbreak and fury? Though mind you, the song could be about anyone–”
“Jaskier,” Yennefer scolds.
"In any case,” – he breathes in deeply – “IamsoveryterriblysorryGeralt. I promise I’ll fix this even if I have to bu- to pay everyone who’s ever heard it to forget it. Luckily, I didn’t venture far from Oxenfurt so–”
Fuck. He smuggled a good few hundred elves who’ve all heard this blasted song outside of Oxenfurt.
“So long as you won’t sing it again, and you’re willing to fix things it’s enough for me,” Geralt says and Jaskier could cry with happiness.
“You don’t even know what it is about!”
Geralt snorts a laugh. “Something caustic most likely. You forget I’ve known you for twenty years, Jaskier.”
Well, he can’t argue with that.
A baby giggles nearby and the last forty-eight hours come crashing down on him. He looks around and sees Dara and Ciri chattering over a basket, he’s assuming Francesca’s very much alive baby is lying.
A sigh of relief escapes his lips. “We saved her, didn’t we?”
Yennefer smiles at him and cards a hand through his hair. “ You did,” she says softly and there’s so much affection laced in her voice he doesn’t know what to do with it.
“Istredd told us what happened,” Geralt adds. The 'we’re proud of you' goes unspoken.
“Where is he, by the way?”
“Back to Cintra to see if her parents are okay before he brings her there,” Geralt says.
“The assassins, they weren’t Redanians, you know,” Jaskier whispers.
“He told us as much, bardling,” Yennefer says, “But something tells me you know who they were.”
“I can make an educated guess but no, for once I have no idea who they were. Don’t forget I was out of the game for nearly thirty years, Yennefer. I do know who hired me to kill the poor baby, though, and who, in the first place employed Lydia to capture Cirilla, who in turn employed me.”
“Do go on.”
“Tall, dark, handsome, has an air of self-importance about him. Ring any bells?”
“Rience, I swear to fucking chaos I’ll burn the other half of your face off if you continue with the riddles.”
“You’re no fun Yenny! And for that matter, I think it would be best if we, uh, killed Rience, so to say.” He takes a swig off the water skin, taking his time just to be an arse. When Yennefer is positively fuming and her grip on his hair almost painful, he plasters on his most serious face and says, “Vilgefortz.”
“That two copper swine!”
“You know him,” Geralt remarks.
“Unfortunately,” Yennefer suppresses a sigh. “Fancies himself the next Brotherhood leader. And Tissaia dotes on him like a love-stricken fool.”
“He is, and I don’t say this lightly, bloody creepy,” Jaskier says, shivering at the memory of Vilgefortz’s unwelcome touch. “Anyhow!” He claps his hands once. “Any ideas how to take him down? Because, quite frankly I am out of thinking juice – Gods, I need a bath – and I should mention that he has all sorts of complex anti-magic wards in his little lair of evil, which I definitely am not equipped to deal with.”
Jaskier doesn’t wait for an answer and sits up, pacing in circles hoping that he’ll somehow locate a magical tub full of nice soothing warm water or something.
“What are you doing?” Yennefer asks, in a mildly amused tone.
“I need a bath,” he replies matter-of-factly.
“The tub’s behind that pine tree,” Geralt says drily, ever the humorist.
“Ha-ha. Hilarious. Oh, berries-”
A knife flies so near to his hand he thinks for a split second it hit him.
“They’re poisonous,” Dara says unperturbed, still looking at Ciri and the baby.
“...Right. Thanks. Speaking of poisons and other deadly things, my dear Yennefer can you summon your lovely tent which I’m sure offers the grandest, evillest of bath services?”
Her response comes in the form of the sexiest of eye rolls. Honestly, that woman will be the death of him one of these days.
“There’s a pond nearby,” Geralt says. “And Yen portalled to your house and got you some clean clothes while you were asleep.” Yennefer glares at Geralt and Jaskier finds himself smiling smugly.
Oh, she cares! Of course, she does!
“Wipe that expression from your face, firefucker.” Jaskier smiles harder and she sighs in defeat. “Fine. I also got you some of your potions. Happy? Can we now please go back to dealing with Vilgefortz’s schemes?”
“Aw, Yenny!” He swoons. Gods, he wants to kiss her again. But first, he rummages through a bag that looks suspiciously too much like the patterned fabric of his good spring cloak and finds his little transformation potions as well as a clean frilly chemise, a royal blue damask patterned vest and matching blue pants. “Do you perhaps remember which row of potions you grabbed those off, dearest witch?”
“What does it matter? They’re all the same.”
“Well, they aren’t, I have a system, thank you very much, but oh well, guess I’ll find out.” He downs a random potion. He scratches his chin, finding a short well-groomed beard instead of his usual two-day stubble. His hair reaches a centimetre below his shoulders. “Alright, that was the early summer one-month duration potion. Great, fantastic, brilliant!” He suppresses a sigh. “Well, I don’t think I could pass as Jaskier now if I tried but that might work in our favour.”
One problem at a time, Jask. One problem at a time.
“Now,” he claps Geralt on the back, “Where’s this heavenly pond you mentioned, for I smell rank, I mean wow, I thought Yennefer smelled bad after her little adventure at the sewers but this is something else! And after this, when Istredd’s back we can talk about Vilgefortz,” he shoots an apologetic look at Yennefer.
“Fine.”