Of Bards and Witchers

Seventh

    The summer following his twentieth birthday, Julian begins teaching at Oxenfurt as their youngest professor. His classes are full to the brim— mostly because his students are about the same age as him, and when you think young professor, you think both eye candy and easy marks; which was not necessarily the case. Well, maybe he was an eyeful, but in the end they stayed for the course. Because he was good at his job. Because while he was providing a challenge he would also cater to the individual. Because he gave them room to grow, and because they left being able to do something more than recite ancient prose in their sleep.
 
    Professors did not play favorites— and he didn’t, he marked every student the same. But, well—
 
    “Good morning, Professor Pankratz.”
 
    Julian beams at the greeting, standing up from his desk in such a rush that he just manages not to spill his ink. “Good morning, Alexander!” He extends his hand with a flourish at the familiar face, to which said face looks alarmed, then pointedly away. “Do call me Julian,” he says, wholly unperturbed. “I’m hardly older than you.”
 
   “No.” Alexander says. His face scrunches distastefully, turning to stare at his still outstretched hand, and Julian fears he may have offended him in some way before he shakes his head. “Er, yes... Professor Julian. You are twenty. I am nineteen-and-a-half.”
 
    And with that, he rushes to claim his seat at the front and begins setting out his things. It is methodical work; he sets his parchment and quill just so. There is another hour at least before class is due to start. The man pulls out a book and is immediately and thoroughly engrossed.
 
    Julian marks every student the same, but Alexander is undeniably his favorite.
 
    —
 
    “I want to go with you,” Jaskier says, hands poised on his hips.
 
    Geralt grunts, then moves to walk around him into the apothecary, so he follows to the side. The Witcher regards him with narrowed eyes. It is the Witcher’s first contract since they’d begun traveling together— a wraith plaguing the fields of a local farmstead— and Geralt means to have him wait it out by the safety of the farmer’s fireplace.
 
    “She’s there every night, wailin’,” the man says. “From dusk to dawn, wailing’ somethin’ fierce. Like a dyin’ animal. I can’t take it, and I can’t harvest no grain while afearin’ for my life. I have coin, it ain’t much, but it’s all I could muster.”
 
    Geralt inclines his head, face grim, but nods.
 
    “What.” He says, curtly.
 
    Jaskier claps his hands together, then throws them apart exasperatedly and exclaims, “I want to go with you! How am I to write of your exploits if I am not there to witness them?”
 
    The Witcher looks between his hands, frowning, and the bard knows what he’s about to say before he even says it.
 
    “No.”
 
    The Witcher moves again. The bard moves with him. Then the Witcher lifts and deposits him gently to the side, as if he weighs no more than a throwing stone, and enters the apothecary. Jaskier stares after him for all of thirty seconds before huffing and following him inside.
 
    —
 
    Matilda Westcotte, fellow professor and benevolent colleague, sips at her drink in such a way that it turns Julian’s stomach unpleasantly. He distracts himself with a mouthful of his sandwich. Roderick raises his brows.
 
    “How is it?” She asks, suddenly, regarding him with thinly veiled curiosity. “The Fae child. It takes part in your morning class, does is it not, Julian?”
 
    Julian does not hide his confusion well enough, brows knitting together as he swallows. As he opens his mouth to voice his question, Roderick interjects— “The changeling, Jules. The Hedley boy. I might admit I am curious as well.”
 
    He wrinkles his nose in recognition. “Alexander Hedley is no fae. Nor is he an it, or a child.”
 
    “And how do you know?”
 
    “I gave him my name a fortnight ago,” he says, between a mouthful of food. Matilda eyes him distastefully at the act, so he swallows. “He said ‘No,’ and scampered off.”
 
    “Rather rude of him,” she says. Roderick nods.
 
    “What? Not at all. Neither of you were even there.” He feels very suddenly like he’s sitting with children, instead of with a woman old enough to be his mother and a man the same age as his uncle. “What right do you have to make assumptions of a man you have never met based solely on my word? He was very polite.”
 
    Suddenly Matilda is very focused on her lunch.
 
    It is not the last time he hears references to “The Fae child,” and he always makes sure to correct them with the man’s name.
 
    Alexander cannot meet his eye, and is very insistent on not being touched. When the lecture hall’s chattering reaches a certain threshold he covers his ears, squeezes his eyes shut and begins to rock in his seat, and Julian knows to quiet them down. Some mornings he will talk Julian’s ear off about his newest book— or a rock he’d found, or a cat he’d seen weaving between the academy buildings— while making animated gestures such as shaking out his wrist or hopping about.
 
    Julian is more than happy to listen. Alexander is as much of a man as the rest of them, everyone has their quirks.
 
    —
 
    He sees Alexander in Geralt, sometimes. In the way he wrinkles his nose as they enter a particularly rowdy inn, or the methodical way he strips his armor or fiddles with his blade. In the way he has troubles voicing himself but if you pay close enough attention to his actions it’s suddenly quite obvious what he means to say. And also the resoluteness with which he speaks. Everything is certain. Everything is curt and literal. Everything is—
 
    “No.”
 
    Jaskier opens his mouth—
 
    “No.”
 
    — and snaps it shut again with a huff.
 
    “You are like a child,” the Witcher says, eyes fixed at him over the lip of his tankard. The bard bristles in offense.
 
    “I am not,” he says. “You’re just a stubborn brute—“ the Witcher raises a brow— “I want to write, Geralt! I need inspiration from my muse— that’s you— yes, you! I need more than just watching you brood stop your mare. You need to go swish swish with your swords, so that I might clap and say ‘Hoorah-!’ when you kill the thing, and then turn it into a magnificent ballad to fatten our purses and bring us fame.”
 
    Geralt drops his drowned drink to the table and motions the barmaid to fill it anew. “There will be no killing,” he says. Then, “Hopefully.”
 
    Jaskier blinks. “Why not?”
 
    Geralt turns his gaze unto those milling about the tavern.
 
    “Alright,” the bard says, propping his head up by his hand. “What do we do, then?”
 
    “I find who killed her,” he hums. “Find the body. Get rid of the wraith.”
 
    “If there’s no killing to be done, why can I not help?”
 
    The Witcher gives him a once over.
 
    “Because,” he says, “you’ll fuck it up. And then she will kill you, and I will have to kill her.”
 
    He makes a face, he is certain, because the Witcher rolls his eyes. “Fine then.” He’ll play and mingle with the townsfolk while Geralt does... whatever he’s planning to do with the corpse. As it happens, his fingers were itching to pick up his lute again.