Of Bards and Witchers

Thirteenth

Julian runs a finger over the rim of his glass and tries to wrestle his focus to no avail. His father drones on and on and the motion continues until Virginia tugs his hand into her lap and intertwines their fingers beneath the tablecloth. Thumbing lightly over her knuckles, he spares her a glance. It'd be something close to romantic, he thinks, if she were not being married off to another man tomorrow.

    He swallows and turns his attention back to his father. It doesn't last long.

    That night as he caresses her cheek, she will tell him that they will not be seeing each other like this again. He doesn't believe her, he tells her as much. She places a hand at the back of his neck and guides him into the crook of her own.

    Virginia of Kerack is his best friend and first lover. She is neither of those things to him-- but maybe once she did have his best interest at heart. He can't really say. She's stolen his heart away regardless.

    "You are hopeless, Julian."

    He mouths at the softness her throat, then brings their lips together. She doesn't turn him away.

    --

    Geralt catches up with him just before nightfall, which isn't so surprising seeing as he's on horseback and he's too lost in his thoughts to make good pace. Roach canters to his side and bumps his head in reprimand. Her rider shifts against the saddle.

    "Don't wander off," his companion murmurs. You could get lost. Or killed.

    "I didn't," the bard huffs. He scratches just behind the mare's ear.

    "You did," the Witcher argues.

    "I didn't."

    Geralt's gaze is weighty on the side of his face; he inclines his head. "You want to leave us."

    Jaskier peers up incredulously at the thought, then turns his gaze away. He looks at the Witcher and sees him turn back for the witch.

    "Of course not," he says.

    "You did," the Witcher says.

    "No." Maybe, he thinks. I didn't mean to. I don't know how I got here. Somehow he thinks it unwise to voice such a thought. He strokes Roach's snout.

    "Hmm."

    Jaskier fiddles with the strap of his lute. The tension perforating the air is uncomfortable, but he really doesn't want to leave. "Did you rest?" He inquires.

    "Yes."

    "Good," he says. He wets his lips. "You're a right bastard without a nap."

    Geralt rolls his eyes and heels his steed into motion. Jaskier pulls his lute to his front.

    Play me.

    He plucks at its strings.

    --

    Jaskier falls back onto his bed with a huff, accompanied by a stark "Oof--!" as his present companion falls heavily onto his chest. The dwarf Zoltan, valiant warrior and truest of friends, chuckles into his chest and rolls off onto his side. He pats the man's shoulder-- or he thinks he does, anyways. Presently he's rather... well, he's trashed, really.

    "I love you, Zoltan," he declares unabashedly. The dwarf claps him hard on the chest-- "Oh, dear," he groans, even as they shift to lay more comfortably beside each other.

    "You are a fine man," Zoltan says. "Even if you are a priss. And a twat. And a lass in disguise."

    Jaskier sniffs as if trying to work out the insult. Instead he pushes an arm out and allows the dwarf to settle into the space. He chews at his lip and wonders belatedly where he'd left his lute, but at a glance he finds it propped by the door.

    "Zoltan," he says, suddenly. "I believe my instrument speaks to me."

    The dwarf snorts. "You're piss drunk, Buttercup."

    Jaskier has no argument that might suggest otherwise.

    "Sleep, my friend."

    Sleep sounds quite good.