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They'd all heard the stories, of course, this tale that transcended time and language, twisted and garbled in all conceivable ways by every tongue that had repeated it. Jaskier had heard many versions, long, and short, sad, and even some extremely colourful ones. Varied as they were, they all still had a few things in common. They all featured a sorcerer, a warrior and a child surprise, and they all had an ending that he found extremely unsatisfactory.
For one, the ending was ambiguous. And while Jaskier did enjoy the free reign creative license gave his not inconsiderable imagination, it didn't extend to tales so riveting he couldn't bear to be the one that wrote the mediocre ending. Secondly, no one was ever sure about when it all happened. The general consensus among the upper echelons of the faculty of historical literature at Oxenfurt was that it did take place, disregarding the crotchety few that wouldn't know chivalry if it bit them on their obnoxious noses. But no one was quite sure when, or even where it all went down.
Thirdly, and this was more a Jaskier thing rather than a general one, he'd always been extremely fond of mystery. And if he could name a trait he possessed that rivalled his musical prowess, it was his determination. Some might call it foolhardiness, or the arrogance of youth yet untainted by the tribulations of real life, but Jaskier preferred to let the haters hate him undeterred. He wouldn't argue with their less than stellar analysis, but he wouldn't dwell on their words either, preferring to let them flow off his aquamarine doublet like water off a duck's back. This tale was full of intrigue, and the discourse mired in controversy: a dead girl, a missing family, and the sordid touch of destiny.
Jaskier was absolutely determined to get to the bottom of it. Not right away, of course, but one day, when he could afford to go gallivanting across uncharted countryside in search of a sleeping warrior.
He was currently shuffling from town to town, hunting his elusive muse. He was sure he’d stumble upon them sooner or later- his step into stardom. And then he could finally get himself a horse, and stop walking everywhere; even if it would make him smell like a stable. At least with a horse, he could’ve outrun the bandits, and not had to make that detour through the thicket.
He cursed as he brushed past brambles that seemed determined to snag on every stitch in his doublet. He’d already lost his hat to a curious squirrel, one turn and a few trees away. His shoes were also slowly being coated by gravel. Jaskier stopped and leant against a tree to catch his breath. Sweat ran sticky across his forehead and down his flushed cheeks, and his blue eyes stood stark, framed by dark lashes and darker circles beneath. Jskier was by no means an unfit man. Sure, his diet lately had been sparse of the usual balanced fare the young lords at Oxenfurt were fed, and he’d walked more in the last week than he ever had before, but that was no reason to pant this much.
He looked around him, at the darkening eve and lengthening shadows. The wind that ruffled his sweat-laden hair was steadily cooling. Dusk seemed imminent, and he did not want to be ensnared in the woods when the night blanketed the sky. Moonlight did not penetrate canopies, and he’d found himself unable to sleep without the comfort of constellations dancing over his closed lids.
Jaskier straightened out of his lean, and ran an absent hand over his back and the seat of his pants to check for dirt. His palm came away glimmering. He squinted down at it, brought it closer to his face for a thorough perusal, and ended up inhaling a lungful of pleasant-smelling gold dust. He coughed and sputtered, and swore heartily. His fingertips were tingling, and a curious warmth emanating from the bed of his nails, and spread down all the way over the curve of his shoulders and up his neck. He could feel a similar warmth extend from deep in his chest in all directions, up to his clavicles, down past his navel all the way to the ends of his feet. His body felt aglow, but his senses must’ve been deceiving him because his eyes could see nothing but the same old pale and unblemished skin and fine apparel.
He shook his head, waved his arms and even jumped up and down a few times. He still felt faintly vibrant, like there were things moving beneath his skin and lighting him up from within. He whirled around to leer at the tree, but found it to be exceedingly ordinary. The bark was old and scaly, a patchwork of all the shades of brown Jaskier could name. The leaves, as far up as he could see, were a beautiful feuille-morte and fluttered ever so often onto the ground. It was a tall tree, stretching far beyond the meshwork of the canopy, no doubt piercing the skyline and nestling into the clouds. Jaskier tilted his head, searching every knot and crevice for the lightest tinge of gold. Nothing. Had he imagined it? But no, he could still feel the subtle thrumming in his veins, now pulsing in time with his heart.
Then, as abruptly as it had suffused his being, the absurd feeling took its leave. Jaskier was himself once more, and he only felt slightly bereft. He stepped away from the mysterious tree and shook himself again for good measure. He would be getting out of the forest now, before any other strange plants decided to shower him in more ridiculous things.
Jaskier picked his lute up off the cushy bed of leaves he’d laid it in while he’d stopped to rest his legs, and strapped it securely to his back. His pack with the rest of his meagre belongings was slung over his shoulder, and it bumped merrily into his hip with every step he took. It was as irritating as it was comforting.
His way out of the forest seemed far less of a struggle than it did on the way in. The stranglehold of stray branches almost felt like playful caresses across his shoulders, roots no longer sprung up beneath his feet to trip him and the wind seemed to encourage him onwards. He gently broke through the thinning treeline and suddenly everything around him was awash in a gay golden hue. The sun that Jaskier was sure had been settling in for the night mere moments ago now winked at him from the horizon, rays emerging from between verdant hilltops. He was confounded. For as far as his eyes could see, it was uninterrupted countryside, lush and untouched. There was nary a soul in sight. But his mind seemed disinclined to panic, quite content to drink in the lazy unmoving air, and the peaceful stillness that permeated this uninhabited trail.
His gaze flitted to his feet, and on the pale and clearly well maintained path he’d landed on. It was wide enough for two horse-carts to comfortably pass each other, with room to spare for the occasional hitchhiker. But it hardly looked traversed at all. There were no recent markings on it, no shallow imprints of horseshoes or the tread of rolling wheels. The grass that lined the sides was smattered with geometric arrangements of neatly trimmed bushes, and it too looked untrodden.
Jaskier surveyed the area again, wide blue eyes roving over every inch of the landscape. He’d been looking for an adventure, and it seemed he’d finally landed on the right path. But which way should he go? His searching gaze lands on a small wooden cabin, a little ways away from his spot. It looked cosy, nestled in a crop of tall trees and facing the valley. The rising sunlight shone directly on it, highlighting the winding stone path that cut through the sea of grass and led directly to the gleaming dark wood of the house. It certainly made for a picturesque sight.
The road to the house was downhill, and it would take him at least a few hours of walking to reach it, and he didn’t even know what lay in store. But the prospect of civilization was alluring enough for Jaskier, and he set off at a brisk pace.
His speed walk lasted perhaps half an hour. His feet were beginning to ache again, and the sun had climbed high enough to siphon all the energy he had. His clothes were sticking to him, and stained unpleasantly at the crevices with sweat. He decided to take a break.
Jaskier sat leaning against a lonely boulder by the side of the road, lute in his lap. He tuned it first, by ear , which was a skill he was quite proud of, and ran through a few scales. Maybe he’d try something new? He let his eyes slip shut, face tilted up, and fingers moving almost unconsciously over familiar chords forming a whole new melody. There were no lyrics yet, but there was a feeling, and Jaskier was breathing life into it.
He opened his eyes a short while later, knuckles cramping and calluses reaffirming their place on his fingertips. He moved to place his lute back in its case, but stopped short. Was that a cat? It certainly looked like a cat, pointy ears and a little pink nose, and it curled in on itself like one, but what was a domesticated animal doing this far away from home? He reached a hand out to pet it, hesitating when flicked a slitted yellow eye open and bared its teeth. But when it did nothing more, he let his fingers parse through astonishingly soft fur, starting at the top of its fuzzy head and smoothing down its back.
“Where did you come from, little one?” He wondered out loud, over its rumbling purrs. It mrowed in reply, butting its head into Jaskier’s hand. “And what do I name you? Hmm, well, definitely a boy cat.” The cat looked less sleepy the more he spoke to it. Its eyes were more alert, body moving out of its comfortable puddle and taking on the coiled tension he usually associated with these prickly felines. “You’re quite a well-bred one, aren’t you? Look at your little fuzzy paws and tabby tail.” He continued scratching behind the cat’s ears as he rambled. “But what do I name you?” It perked up then, eyes narrowed, as if daring Jaskier to come up with a less than satisfactory name. “Well, you are the first living creature I’ve seen here. And your bright coat blends astonishingly into the land around us. Maybe Lambert?” It cocked its head to the side. “Yes, Lambert. I did take an etymology class at Oxenfurt, you know? Definitely didn’t think I’d ever use it, but here we are. Lambert, bright-land.”
Jaskier chuckled as the cat meowed loudly. “Well, Lambert, I do need to get going.” He gently coaxed it off his lovely case, checking for scratches on the lacquer from errant claws. “Thank you kindly, oh majestic kitty,” he said as it finally deigned to hop off, after tossing him a displeased look. “Now, now, don’t be upset. This bard has places to be. But look, I’ve left you this lovely boulder to finish sunning yourself on!” He gestured at the rock he’d been leaning against, as he stepped back onto the path.
It followed him. Jaksier was definitely pleased.
He continued along the road, humming and talking in equal measure. Lambert beside him was getting more animated as time passed. He'd gone from slinking quietly by Jaskier's heels to batting at his ankles, the bottom of his lute case, and even running off to sniff the grass and rocks by the side. Lambert made quite the lovely distraction. Still, Jaskier couldn't help but notice that they hadn’t come across a single other creature, not even a butterfly or a mouse. It was as if everything around them was sound asleep.
Jaskier found his energy flagging barely a couple of hours later. He’d drank nearly half his waterskin, and even eaten a handful of dried fruits he’d had the foresight to pack at the last inn he’d stayed at. Lambert seemed to be doing better, but even he’d begun slowing down. Lambert however, wasn’t keen on letting him rest. Every time his feet began to drag, and he’d decrease his pace, the little furry menace would yowl and climb all over him, making a nuisance of himself until Jaskeir began moving again. His companion seemed eager to get ahead.
Suddenly, Lambert shot off like a dart, running straight ahead and then right off the path. Jaskier lurched forward and followed him as fast as he could. He finally caught up to his wayward companion sitting in the shade of a tall tree, meowing up at its branches. Jaskier looked behind him and realised he wasn’t far off from the road at all, barely a couple of feet, but for some reason this spot had evaded his sight from where’d he’d been standing on the road.
He walked up beside the excitable cat and followed his gaze. High up, with its head tucked into its closed wings, dozed an owl. It looked rather peaceful. Somehow, Lambert’s racket hadn’t been enough to rouse it. Jaskier tried to hush the silly cat anyway, but to no avail. He eventually sat down in the shade himself, after Lambert nearly bit through the cloth of his pants tugging at it.
He slipped his lute off his back and leaned against the tree. Before he could lay it down however, Lambert began pawing at the case, bumping it with his head and pawing at Jaskier. “What do you want, you feral annoyance?” Jaskier finally groaned, after several moment’s of Lambert’s incessant meows and scratches. The cat pawed at the lute again, and looked up at Jaskier demandingly. Jaskier’s eyebrows flew up past his hairline. “You can’t be serious. You want me to play? Now?” His incredulity did nothing to sway Lambert. Evidently, his companion was in the mood for music, and would not rest until he had what he wanted.
Jaskier sighed. “Sorry Mr. Owl,” he whispered a fleeting apology to the sleeping woodland creature above them, and took his lute out. His eyes slipped closed of their own accord, and Jaskier found himself sinking into the same tune that he’d begun last time, that had been floating through his mind since he’d fallen into this golden realm.
He opened his eyes an indeterminate amount of time later, the last chord fading softly into the air, and startled, for the third or maybe fourth time that day. The owl was awake, and it had landed right in front of him.
It was regal looking, if a bit terrifying. The owl had a white face, its eyes and beak forming a light brown V in the center of it. It’s feathers were sepia-toned and neatly groomed for the most part. What stunned Jaskier was the scars. The owl’s body was littered with a myriad of marks old and new, that spoke of battles untold. Jaskier found himself staring into the owl’s fathomless eyes, old beyond his comprehension, and it stared back unblinking. An eternity was shared in that gaze, and when impatient little Lambert broke their concentration with a headbutt first into Jaskier and then the owl’s legs, Jaskier felt breathless, like he’d been put through the wringer. The owl expressed its displeasure with a sharp swipe of its clawed feet against Lambert’s ears. The cat jerked back, hissing but unrepentant.
Jaskier blinked bewildered eyes and shook himself out of his daze. He felt strangely energized, and was eager to set out again. “Well Mr. Owl, I don’t suppose you’re coming with us too?” It didn’t make a sound. Jaskier sighed. “I guess you’ll need a name too, huh.” He perused the owl again, lingering on its scars and the prominent V on its face. “You seem like a wise old hero, my friend. Maybe Vesemir, the renowned warrior?” The owl didn’t object, and Lambert was yowling in what Jaskier thought was agreement. “Welcome Vesemir, to our adventuring party.”
They set off again, Jaskier in the lead, with a tabby cat weaving between his legs and an owl imperiously flying above them. Vesemir didn’t seem bothered by the sunlight at all, and was even more eager than Lambert to travel.
It was nearing midday, Jaskier was sure, when his strength once again began to wane. He didn’t know where this lethargy was coming from. Lambert was flagging too, Jaskier could see. Vesemir swooped low over Jaskier’s head, once, and then twice, and Jaskier extended his forearm, offering a perch for their tiring owl. Vesemir landed gracefully, and Jaskier could see him visibly fighting the urge to let his eyelids droop.
But every time Jaskier tried to slow down, Vesemir would hoot loudly in indignation. And so Jaskier kept walking, and walking, and walking some more, until his calves burned and knees threatened to buckle. Vesemir was hooting almost constantly now, a pleasant if sharp melody, and it was the only reason Jaskier hadn’t crumbled where he stood.
He wondered how much farther it was to the cabin he’d seen, and looked around with fatigued eyes. Not too long to go. Maybe he could rest for just a little bit. Vesemir lifted off his arm and circled overhead. Lambert was biting at his ankles again. Jaskier wondered what strange woodland creature he would be picking up, with only the slightest tinge of exasperation.
They led him over a bend in the road, and he could just about make out the top of the house from there. They were so close. They stopped by a thick hedge this time, and immediately Jaskier noticed the tiny tiny golden-blue bird asleep in a messy nest. Sleep was almost upon him too.
He knelt and pulled out his lute, fingers fumbling with the latch on his case. His lids felt weighed down, and his body sank into the arms of the hedge as he rested his back against it. Vesemir hopped onto his knee and Lambert curled up by his hip. Jaskier began the melody once more.
This time, he could feel the resurgence of energy through his veins, an inhuman warmth flooding his senses and reawakening every nerve ending. The wordless rhythm resonated in his ears, in his mind, his leaden legs. His eyes snapped open the second his fingers stopped playing, and alighted on the little yellow songbird perched on his thigh.
It was a beautiful little bird, feathers ochre at the crown and a deep blue at the wings. Its eyes were ringed in black, very reminiscent of kohl. “Well don’t you just look like a little lady,” Jaskier said. “I’m going to call you Ciri.” The little songbird warbled at him. Jaskier had energy enough to beam back.
“I suppose we’re off to the cottage now?” He said, once they’d got back on the road. The sun was lower in the sky than he’d thought it’d be. How long had he spent, singing little Ciri awake? His companions didn’t reply, but they did continue to herd him forward. With the addition of Ciri, things had gotten much louder. She chirped and warbled indiscriminately, and flew in erratic circles, cutting into Vesemir’s path and dive-bombing onto poor Lambert. She’d even used Jaskier’s mop of floppy brown hair as a perch for a while.
It was firmly in mid-afternoon, maybe tea-time territory when the road gave way to loose gravel, and the deviation to the cottage appeared. Jaskier didn’t see any signs, but really, he was pretty certain he’d walked the last few meters with his eyes closed. There was definitely something weird going on here beyond his perception, and Jaskier was reasonably certain the answer lay in the house before him. Now if only his body would cooperate.
He felt like he was walking through treacle, with anchors tied to his feet. But it was Ciri’s turn to lead him now, and she was even more determined than Vesemir. The poor owl was valiantly trying to keep his eyes open from his perch on Jaskier’s forearm, unlike little Lambert who’d given up a while ago and was now dozing contently in the crook of Jaskier’s arm. Ciri was flagging too, her wings beating slower and slower with every passing step.
They were almost at the entrance to the cottage now, just a few more metres of tree-lined gravel left. The silence was absolute, not even the wind daring to whistle. Jaskier wondered if Ciri was leading him right into the house itself, when she stumbled out of the sky in a free-fall, and landed right atop the rug in front of the doorway. A rug? Out here? Jaskier moved closer, eyes squirting at the unusual decor, and froze. It wasn’t a rug at all. It was a white wolf.
Jaskier gulped. Ciri chirped impatiently at him from the top of the wolf’s head. Looks like he’d be waking that up next. He dropped to his knees on the step below the Wolf's, and gently set Lambert down. Vesemir made his way to the Wolf's back.
Jaskier knew even as he set up his lute, that he should be a little less blaise about waking a potential predator up, but his mind felt like molasses. The only thought in his mind was the strange melody. He was even slower starting up this time, fingers almost losing their time. He was sure this would be the last time he played, before the mystical sleep claimed him in its embrace.
Like all the times before, when Jaskier pried his eyes open, he was staring into animalistic ones. These ones resembled a starburst, spokes of yellow radiating from a pitch black pupil, ringed in blue. The wolf had risen to its feet, body straight as a spear and gaze just as sharp. Ciri idly grooming its head did nothing to diminish its aura of menace. Jaskier felt its snarl all the way to his aching bones. He fought gravity to raise his hand high enough to pet its snout. So close to the cabin, but he wasn’t sure he had the fortitude to make it in.
The wolf grabbed him by the front of his tunic and pulled. Jaskier found himself being dragged forward. “Alright, alright,” he said, one hand half-up placatingly, the other clutching his lute. “I’m getting up.” It was a struggle, despite his lovely woodland creatures doing their best to help. The wolf nudged his great head into the back of Jaskier’s knees, urging him to get a move on. Jaskier stumbled forward, sans the lute case which was still lying on the floor.
“I’m going, give me a second here Geralt,” he snapped at the wolf that had the gall to bare its teeth at him. He would’ve frowned if moving his face hadn’t seemed like too much effort. “Yes, you’re Geralt now, spear-wielder. Easily the most protective thing I’ve seen today.”
He lurched over the threshold, grabbing the door-frame to hold himself up. He looked down at his companions, who seemed to be having some sort of discussion amongst themselves. “Where to, oh noble guides?” It was meant to be sarcastic, but the words just ended up slurred. Everything required more effort than he had to spare.
They moved as a unit, Lambert in the lead, Ciri flitting overhead, and Geralt by Jaskier’s side, keeping him up. Vesemir had vanished into the bowels of the house, presumably waiting at their destination.
It took them far too long to reach the broad wooden door they were now in front of. Jaskier was sweating and panting, and his eyes were sliding shut. The door was ajar, and Lambert and Geralt pushed it open all the way. It was a bedroom.
Jaskier shuffled in, grip on his lute tenuous, and made a beeline for the bed. He could finally lie down, get some rest- it was occupied. Of course it was. Jaskier swayed in his spot. His vision was blurring, but caught intimately on the body lying in the bed. It was covered almost entirely by a sheet, only his face visible. And what a face it was, Jaskier thought. A strong chin, leading up to plush pink lips barely parted. Sat above was a large nose, framed by sharp cheekbones. His eyes were closed, brows heavyset and lax, forehead free of wrinkles. His hair was a luscious brown, darker on his head than the stubble that grew on his cheeks. He looked timeless, and utterly at peace despite the brutal scars marring half his visage.
If this was the last thing Jaskier saw before falling asleep, he would be a happy man indeed, with the most pleasant dreams. But his companions would not cease their clamor.
He allowed them to push and prod him into a cushy chair by the bed, and placed the lute in his lap. Vesemir dropped a sheaf of papers on the bed right in front of him. Sheet music. It was the melody he’d been playing all day. It was a ballad, and -he shuffled the papers around- it spanned almost four entire pages. It was called Deirdrie’s Lament.
He felt a strange prickling sensation behind his eyes.
He cleared his throat. “You want me to play this?” Vesemir blinked at him slow and heavy. The others had fallen silent. “Alright,” Jaskier whispered and began.
His eyes were open, Jaskier knew, and parsing the lines of notes his fingers were playing. But there was a story unfolding before them anyway, so clear it felt like he was living it, a battle, a life saved and promise enacted. Tears streamed unchecked down his cheeks. The scenes kept flowing, an eclipse and a beautiful baby girl, and a bond blooming under the prudent gaze of destiny. Deirdre and Eskel. There was a maelstrom brewing in Jaskier’s chest, emotions he couldn’t name. Eskel, the man in the bed. A divine reward indeed.
The sounds of spears and screams filled his ears, and the next vision was blood-tinged. Deirdre is in pain and fleeing, and Eskel is in pain and ignorant. There is a stable, a horse and a confrontation. When Jaskier sees Eskel next, he has scars on his face that could not have come from the kikimore he’d been fighting. Deirdre has vanished.
Jaskier’s lips moved soundlessly, repeating dialogue lost to time. A sorcerer appears, vile and begging for blood. Eskel is hunting his child. There are curses, so many curses. Jaskier’s fingers were moving faster now, the story nearing its climax.
They meet finally in a clearing lined by roses and thorns, under a new moon sky. Deirdre is lost, and Eskel is sorry, he is so sorry. The sorcerer is unrelenting. Eskel begs, pride fallen and scars glistening with tears. His lips are cracked and his throat is parched. He does not stop. So destiny intervenes, and the sorcerer unbends. Deirdre is remade, her cracks sealed with gold. She will live, and she will forget; no more will she be mired in pain. In return, Eskel will die.
Jaskier felt his heart seize, overrun with trepidation and sorrow. Eskel couldn’t be dead, he’d made it all this way . Eskel’s companions step up. It is their turn to plead. The hand of destiny favours these brave friends. Eskel is spared, but the price still needs to be paid. Then they will pay it together, the companions decree. And so transformed they are, and Eskel put to sleep. Deirdre of old is woven into the song of the world. One day, when her name is known once more, then these men will awake, and the debt will have been paid.
Jaskier slipped out of his fugue, and gazed at the animals sprawled across the room. Sweet Melitele, the choice they had made . He traced his flushed cheeks with fingertips that had gone numb. “I know,” he croaked, “I know who you are, and what you’ve done.” He licked his lips. “You were people once, warriors old and brave. You were turned, to keep him” he jerked his head to the bed, “company as he slept.” Nobody moved. “And the sorcerer, he was only meant tp put Eskel to sleep, wasn't he? But he lied, and did it to all of you too. Maybe even this entire place?" He shook his head. "But for some reason, my music could keep you awake." He sucked in a tremulous breath. "And now I suppose I'm meant to lift this enchantment?" Jaskier bit his lip and nodded squarely. He would do it. For these strange brave people whom he'd come to treasure beyond what he'd thought himself capable of, he could at least try.
“Deirdre,” his voice broke on the second syllable. “Deirdre, I have heard your story, and I have borne witness to your torment. Your name will be known in book and song forevermore. Now please, set them free.”
For a moment, nothing happened, and Jaskier thought he’d failed. And then a breeze fluttered through the room, sending the sheet music floating through the air. A golden glow enveloped Jaskier and his companions, obscuring everything from their sight. On the bed, Eskel’s eyelids fluttered, and slowly, they flickered open. His amber gaze surveyed the strange room he was in, drank in the sight of his family strewn across the floor and also oddly on the table, before landing on the cornflower blue gaze of the beautiful man seated right by his bed. “Uh,” the man said, hand raised to scratch at his head in response to Eskel’s raised brow, “I can explain?”