Of Bards and Witchers

Second

    She is fifteen, he is seventeen, and they are in love. Or will be, anyhow, in two years time. Fleetingly so, as it happens. She will introduce him to his truest love ( Prose, that is. ), and become his first muse. And then she will break his heart— and isn't that song worthy in itself? And then she will break it again. And again. And once more, for the final time, when she is twenty-two and he is twenty-four.

    Presently Julian wants nothing more than to scratch at the itch his collar brings where it tickles his jaw. If he'd had things his way he'd leave it undone, but, as it happens, such displays are frowned upon at these sorts of events. Here he was meant to sit quietly. Absolutely no fidgeting. Do not speak unless spoken to. Keep your elbows off the table and back straight as a rod. Take calculated bites of your meal, so as not to come across as gluttonous— but eat enough so that you aren't pegged as ungrateful. His fingers twitch in his lap. Melitele's tits, does it itch—

    "...lian."

    He is grounded as Virginia, his future lover and the soon-to-be Countess de Stael, rests a gentle hand upon his knee. Her face is awfully stony as he peers at her— she herself offers nothing more than a fleeting glance, brown eyes soft and warm and yet despairingly blank, before her eyes are flickering past him— and he finds himself wondering what she would look like, had an authentic smile been tugging at her lips.

    "Julian."

    He very nearly startles. From the head of the table to his right, the Viscount de Lettenhove glowers at him, and at his side Virginia pulls her hand back and reaches up to tuck a lock of auburn hair behind her ear. When she reaches for her drink, it's with a frankly appalling display of equanimity for one so young. He clenches and then unclenches his jaw.

    "Yes, Father?"

    Julian Alfred Pankratz, soon to be Viscount de Lettenhove, swallows thickly, raises his chin, and turns to meet his father's eye.

    —

    The village of Blackwater does not live up to its name, and thank the Gods for that. In contrast, he finds the water from their well to be the most refreshing he's had in a while. He wipes a droplet from the corner of his mouth with his sleeve and assumes that if Beastie could speak, he would agree— although there is a chance he is from this town, and that he has never had anything but this, and thusly wouldn't agree at all. Things are always sweeter when they are far from home, he finds.

    "No."

    Jaskier shuffles where he stands in the doorway of the quaint little Pheasants Inn. "No?"

    The inkeep is a weathered woman. Her hair is blonde and coarse and unkempt, hands near worn to the bone as she scrubs rigorously at the counter, and she gives him a look. The same one a tired mother might give a child who she knows has done wrong. Like she is simply waiting for him to own up to it. He blinks quizzically. She huffs and tosses her rag aside.

    "The mutt, you fool bard," she sneers. "It stays outside."

    "Ah." Right. The pup sits patiently at his heel, the bard purses his lips thoughtfully. The inkeep sighs.

    "Play for us," she says, finally. "Your mutt will be well and fine in the stable, I'll have the cook cut up some meat to feed it. You can keep whatever coin you can weed out of the crowd."

    Jaskier grins from ear to ear, taps the pup gingerly with the toe of his boot.

    "Hear that, Beastie? We've a gig tonight."

    —

    The second time he plays for a tavern, in a town called Glenneth, goes splendidly. Until it doesn't.

    His fingers ache in a way that they haven't since he'd first started playing, and his throat is on the verge of soreness, but it is the pleasant feeling warming his stomach at a show gone right that overwhelms him. Cheeks sore from grinning, but he is full and warm and his coin purse is hefty— and so he can't bring himself to stop. He leans against the bar and engages the barmaid in a fleeting conversation.

    A man slides a fresh pint of ale in front of him. He accepts it graciously; it is cold and soothes his throat as it glides down.

    "Buttercup, eh?"

    Jaskier sputters into the pint and raises his brows; places it back onto the counter before turning. Heat rises to his cheeks as he dabs at his mouth with his sleeve— Good Gods, if Mother could see me—

    Oh, he's marvelous.

    He's lost within pools of warm mahogany, speckled with fragmented emeralds and shavings of gold. His lips part— the young man himself is blonde and tall, and his face has strong features of which he might describe as pretty, were such a thing appropriate; he's lean but accentuated with the muscle of which most working men are.

    The man inclines his head and smiles. "Name's Dolan."

    "Oh-!" the bard says. He thrusts out a hand, tries to will the heat from his cheeks as he realizes he's forgotten to respond. "Jaskier— " He offers— then wrinkles his nose, and settles with a sheepish smile. Frantically he prays to whichever deity that happened to be listening for his mind to align with his mouth. "Ah, well. You knew that already. Er, thank you. For the pint."

    Dolan looks amused, smiling pleasantly as he takes Jaskier's hand into his own.

—

His back is pressed against the stable wall as their teeth clash— it's desperate and fleeting and Dolan fists his shirt as if he might vanish as soon as he lets go. He feels centered and whole and needed— wanted— and part of him knows he'll be chasing this feeling for the rest of his life.

    Jaskier sleeps with him. In a real bed. In a real house. And it's good. And he would have done it again in the morning we're he not being chased abruptly out of the village in the dead of night— Melitele's sake, how was a passing bard to know that the man bedding him was the alderman's son?

    He hasn't run this hard since Oxenfurt. His lungs are searing, and his legs are burning.

    At least he'd gathered most of his belongings.

    Quite a shame about the shirt, though. Silk is oh-so-hard to come by outside of the city— and the thudding of his lute against his bare back is sure to leave a bruise come morning.