Chapter Text
Chapter One, Think Of All The Horrors
The ball was like any other he'd thrown in the last year. It was no different. Musicians played and Jaskier ached to drop his partner's hand and join them on stage. But he didn't. He was here to find a wife, a suitable lady who could manage while he roamed the countryside singing to any willing ear. They were all beautiful women, with dark eyes, soft skin and tittering laughs. Not to be outdone by the fluttering, demure eyelashes though. No, never to be outdone by them. They talked about the weather mostly, and Jaskier desperately wished he could don a disguise and run from all of this. The scattered remains of his lordly responsibilities that his parents had left for him. He wanted nothing more than to pack a bag and leave, leave the manor, leave these beautiful women, and abandon it all.
The Lettenhove Manor was full of nothing but dusty old ghosts, empty superstitions and outdated expectations. Like finding a wife in a sea of silk and pearl, in a haystack of curls and perfume. He resisted the urge to sigh, spinning the woman under his arm. Her dress had to be twice the size of her at least, in very flattering shades of shimmering green fabric. Her hair was practically lopsided, Jaskier noticed as she spun back into his grasp. It was easy to miss, as the longer strands were tucked into an elegant coif, but the other side of her hair was quite short. It was her eyes that stood out the most though, a vibrant shade of brown, were terrifyingly cold.
"You look stunning this evening," Jaskier commented, pressing a kiss to her gloved hand in time with the music.
"I bet you say that to all the girls," she replied, pulling her hand free from his.
"I would never," Jaskier lied shamelessly. What young woman didn't like hearing how gorgeous she was? And while he did say it to all the women he'd danced with tonight, and each time before, he meant it.
"You are a liar, then," she said, stepping out of their dance. She curtsied low and disappeared into a sea of silk before he could dispute her claim.
Women had certainly said worse before, and he wasn't in the mood to chase the strange girl through a crowd of eligible women. There were a few eligible bachelors present as well, ones Jaskier could marry that would satisfy his parents' will and allow him to travel. But they shied away every time he approached, much to his dismay. And that was how Lady Sowka found him, attempting to approach the lemonade bowl and make idle conversation with a handsome young lad. Jaskier had never been picky in who his company was, though he tried to steer away from those whose reputations hung on the line. It would have been uncouth and terribly ungentlemanly to ruin a young woman's future prospects, unless he thought he would wed her. At least with the men it was easier, the expectations on them weren't quite as great.
"Lord Pankratz," she said, curtsying.
"Lady Sowka," he replied, smiling warmly. She had been his favorite so far, and having been widowed at a young age, it wasn't a crime for her to warm his bed at night. Her vibrant red hair was swept up in a horrendous style of some kind, rather like a beehive, Jaskier thought. "You're absolutely divine tonight."
She giggled. Jaskier had considered taking her as his wife several times, but for all her beauty and her questionable fashions, she lacked a brain. Not entirely of course, but she was the only woman wearing a red gown with vibrant splashes of blue. Complete with too many ruffles to count, and a very large girlish bow of darkest red at her chest, she was not a vision to behold. Rumor had it that she spent most of her late husband's fortune on gambling and questionable choices in fashion, like tonight's dress. She would have been an easy pick; an oblivious woman his age, but with frankly concerning spending habits. Jaskier, believe it or not, for all his philandering did not want to run his parents' legacies into the ground.
Perhaps he was a liar, Jaskier reflected. But it was only for the best of reasons. The other ladies were not kind to Cara Sowka, nor were the gentleman as he understood it. He doubted she'd had a single dance this night. And it would be rude and the worst kind of behavior as the host if he didn't at least try to remedy it.
"Would you like to dance, Lady Sowka?" he asked, offering his hand.
"Now?" She smiled brightly at him. "I would love to, my Lord."
They danced a jaunty waltz across the ballroom, and while Cara wasn't the brightest, she moved with a fluid grace many young women could only envy. They finished their waltz, and headed back towards the drink stand. Jaskier chatted with her, hating every minute of it. She was a lovely woman, truly, but little substance to her. She was enthusiastic about frogs, of all things, and the plight of rodent-kind was close to her heart. Few would listen to her. Jaskier took a drink of wine, idly nodding his head in agreement to whatever she was saying. Her cheeks were bright pink, her lips had a neat cupid's bow, and she'd applied rouge tonight. In short, she was entirely kissable.
In fact, kissing her was far preferable than listening to her talk. He didn't care about frog habitats, or how trapping rats was inhumane. The bastards got into grain and kitchen food and Jaskier wasn't keen to be poisoned. It was easy enough to turn the conversation towards something innocuous, like the flowers they grew in the backyard, and to convince her to step outside with him for some fresh air. She was a widow, and as such, unchaperoned. It was easy to slip into the garden, leading her behind some hedges to steal a few sweet kisses.
And that was how the young woman in shimmering green silk found them. "Oh my!" she exclaimed, covering her eyes.
Jaskier pulled back, cheeks pink. Lady Sowka let out a breathy laugh, adjusting her dress.
"I didn't realize anyone was out here," Jaskier said.
"No, my Lord, I should apologize," she said demurely. But there was nothing demure about those brown eyes staring him down. In her hand, she held a single rose.
"Oh Renfri," Cara whispered, reaching out to her. "It's quite alright. Viscount Jaskier was just helping me fix my rouge."
Jaskier closed his eyes and prayed to the gods for patience he did not possess.
"With his lips," Renfri echoed, glaring at Jaskier. "Yes, I can see that."
Cara nodded, like this was an entirely reasonable explanation. Perhaps, in whatever world she lived in, it was. "I had a terrible smudge."
"I'm sure you did."
"I think she gets the idea, Cara," Jaskier said gently. "Please, feel free to enjoy my gardens. My parents spent a lot of time here, growing flowers from across the Continent."
"I think I've seen more than I cared to," Renfri replied acerbically. She shot another piercing glare in Jaskier's direction before dropping into a smooth curtsy. "Cara, I do think you should be careful with this one. He's nothing more than a cad."
Jaskier hurried after her, flustered, but she disappeared into a throng of dancers, and he was left standing there empty-handed, and with swollen lips. What had he even wanted to say anyway? Jaskier let out a sigh. He turned, and headed upstairs, where the music was muted. He slipped down the halls, intending to freshen up. Cara would likely be fine; there would be gossip and speculation about who she had met in the gardens, but people were already gossiping from the evening trips she'd made to his manor. Certainly her servants knew she had not returned home; and his servants knew she didn't leave until that morning.
"Lord Pankratz!"
Jaskier stopped, turning. Stepping out from his library was none other than the well-endowed Countess de Stael. Had she been waiting for him? She was a familiar guest of the Lettenhove Estate, and Jaskier wouldn't have been surprised to learn that his servants had led her here to wait for him. He also wouldn't have been surprised to learn she had let herself in. He smiled warmly; his heart thumping. He'd been in love with her for as long as he could remember.
"You do me a great honor, my Lady," he said, bowing smoothly.
Virginia smiled, a rare expression from her. She loved nothing more than to play the enigmatic lady; and she surely knew he had a hundred questions to ask of her. But she volunteered nothing. She hadn't been in Redania since she married Count de Stael.
"It's lovely to see you again."
Jaskier smiled, stepping towards her and gently taking her hand in his. He pressed a tender kiss to her glove, glancing at her. It shouldn't have been a surprise, but somehow it was, that hours later, or perhaps not even that long after, when they were pressed together in the library, Jaskier's hands occupied and Virginia making the sweetest noises when the door swung open.
"Viscount Julian!"
Jaskier pulled back, eyes wide; Countess de Stael stilled beside him. Standing at the entrance to the library was none other than Renfri.
"You are a liar, a cad and worst of all a cheat."
"This isn't -"
Renfri gestured rudely. "You are the worst kind of man I have ever met. Lady Sowka is downstairs with a broken heart, humiliated by your-your arrogance to discard women like playthings!"
"If you let me explain -"
"You should be as monstrous on the outside as you are inside," she snapped, and the tension in the room crackled. The rose in her hand glowed. "You should be as ashamed as you've made that woman. Every woman you've spoken to! You invite us here to find a wife, but devote your time only to yourself."
Outside, thunder rumbled in the distance, and the first drops of rain hit the ground. Lightning flashed ominously, illuminating the library.
"You are the worst kind of man, Lord Julian. There's no love in your heart for anyone but yourself," she growled. "If you can learn to love another, and be loved in return, before the last petal of this rose falls, only then can you return to mortal form."
The roar of the thunder drowned out the roar dragged from within Jaskier as the curse took root. He felt the shift, all-at-once, as his bones snapped and broke, as his skin twisted, as feathers sprouted from his skin. He felt too tight, and the pain was like nothing he'd ever known before. He turned to Virginia for help as lightning flashed, and the only love of his life screamed, and ran from him.
Renfri threw the rose at him, disgusted. "For who could ever love a beast?" She shook her head before departing.
For minutes, Jaskier lay unmoving in the darkened library. Rain hammered down outside. Tiny electric shocks seemed to course through his body, and it was difficult to do little more than groan. By the time they stopped, it could have been hours. It could have been days. He managed to drag himself to a chair, and grabbed onto it with hands that felt more like claws to pull himself upright and stumble into the hall. Agnieszka saw him first, horrid candlelight revealing him, and she screamed and fled down the hall. Jaskier hurried in the opposite direction, using the walls to keep himself upright as he pushed open his bedroom door and made his way to the mirror.
Servants had been in here already; his bed was made, the candles lit, and he could only stare in horror at his reflection. He wasn't a man. He was a beast. Dark feathers littered his body, and some trailed behind him like a molting chicken. A sad, dark molting chicken. Soft black feathers covered his body, or perhaps, they were his body. He had a humanoid shape underneath the bulk of them, that of the lanky man he could remember being. His feet were misshapen; nothing but terrifying talons. Feathers lines his face, framing his still-blue human eyes. Stinging tears welled in his eyes, and a wail escaped his lips as he stared at his reflection.
Jaskier had never questioned his beauty. He'd never wondered; he had approached women with warm smiles and flattery, and they were receptive. Certainly he had money, and a family legacy behind him, but he'd always known he was handsome. He'd never wondered. What he lacked in charm, a pretty face made up for. Tears rolled down his cheeks, getting lost in the tangle of feathers there. He hit the mirror, frustrated, and stepped back as it shattered beneath his touch. Virginia had said it more than once, Jaskier realized. That the best parts of him were his body -that she'd been lured in with his sweet smile, and his big eyes. She was the closest to ever come to loving him. With her sharp wit, passion for orphans and the working class, and her genuine kindness.
Her marriage was a loveless one, and she and her husband had come to an agreement about that years ago. She seldom stopped by Lettenhove though, having said it was too difficult. They'd been neighbors, and in their youth spent much time together. Jaskier read her poetry, sometimes writing it. At her insistence, he could be found at the piano playing her favorite songs. He didn't blame her. If things had gone differently, he liked to think they could have been wed. But her father wanted her to marry into new money, and so she'd married Count de Stael.
The servants fled screaming about a monster, but not even the Witchers cared enough to come running. Jaskier supposed he couldn't blame them.
In the weeks that followed, after the most loyal of his parents' servants quit or fled in the dark of night, Jaskier stopped eating. He laid in bed and didn't eat for a week. He had the pleasure of his favorite books for company, but he would be lying if he said he didn't yearn for more. And he certainly did. Because books were nice to flee into, but his claws were not meant for the finesse required in turning a page. He'd been forced to unbind the books, to flip page after page like a man trapped in animal form. His stomach growled, but there was no food in the house. He couldn't even play the piano to pass the time; the keys hurt his claws, and his feet were too wide to comfortably sit at the bench. He stared at his violin, at the other string instruments he had bought over the years, and wished for fingertips in order to play.
It wasn't a question of if he would be willing to kill for the ability to play again, because if he thought murder would get him there faster, he would have been more than willing to kill to play music again. He couldn't pick up a pen, or hold it, in order to write. There was nothing to pass the time with, except for staring longing out the windows. But looking through them, meant seeing his own reflection. He'd shredded several curtains in the attempt to draw the drapes. Because if music was what he longed the most for, his reflection was what he feared the most.
Some days, he liked to pretend he was still human. Late at night, he would stand outside and feel the wind run through his feathers. It was like skin, except in all the ways it wasn't. But for the parts of his face that were just bare skin, it was the best feeling. He would close his eyes, breathe in the fresh air, and imagine a life where he was still human in all the ways that mattered. A young man, only eighteen years old, dreaming about his wedding. Beyond that, the roads he could travel across the Continent playing music for different audiences. Returning home to a spouse who managed the finances, the businesses his parents had left for him, and the balls they would throw upon his return. A world where his spouse was the love of his life. Someone who understood his deep yearning for the road, for music, for passion and love and all life had to offer. His partner would throw a ball, and Jaskier would be the guest of honor. Strangers would greet him, men and women he'd never met, but who were friends with his capable, clever partner.
And then, the wind would rustle his feathers, and he would open his eyes and be reminded of his reality. There was no one who could ever love a monster. Jaskier grew to hate the sound of his feathers dragging behind him, and the way he had to walk as it was easier to hop around than step like men did. It was humiliating and shameful. And as spring rolled into winter, going outside felt like a death sentence. He couldn't stand to be out for more than a minute, even wrapped in the thickest blanket he owned. And wrapped it around himself had been hours and hours or work, of using his talons and his mouth in ways humans couldn't. Worst of all, there was no one he could talk to about any of it.
His childhood home had never felt as empty as it did that winter. Jaskier struggled to light fires on the coldest of nights, instead opting to build a nest of pillows, blankets and other fabrics he could drag with ease. He built the nest in his bedroom, on the bed he'd shoved against a wall to provide further protection from the drafts outside. Normally there would be servants bringing hot coals to him, but he couldn't even light a fire. And he certainly couldn't fly, not like this, not in this weather. He wondered whether he should even try to see if he could fly, but the image of the ground soaring up to greet him kept him on his feet and off his wings.
But he survived the cold nights. And he lived off the food that was easy to pick at, though he soon grew to resent salted meat and potatoes. By the time spring had arrived, when the snows first began to melt, he realized the pantry was empty. As was the cellar. It wasn't as though he could simply go to the grocer's in Kerak either. Not without causing a scene, not without someone hiring a Witcher to kill him. But more than that, he didn't want to be seen. What was the purpose of his hideous disfigurement? Because what else could it be called when you had feathers growing out of your body? He was a lithe, lean monstrous bird figure. A creature of some child's nightmare, perhaps one the Shrike had dreamt of herself. He wondered how she'd even managed to get into the event -invitations were required, and Jaskier had a servant check every name twice. He thought about it, about forcing himself out of bed and outside. Where he would stumble his way to Kerak, and watch as the villagers screamed and ran for their lives. He thought about just walking into the grocer's and eating his fill, returning home, unbothered by those living nearby. The people would have been terrified of him. Then it would be a different matter of waiting -waiting for angry townsfolk to burn him and his house alive, or for a Witcher to show up and kill him.
By the time he was weak enough that leaving the bed to get water was impossible, the Shrike returned. He didn't know how he hadn't recognized her on the night of the ball, with her lopsided hair and empty, dead eyes. He hadn't known her name was Renfri, or that her eyes were brown. He'd known of her only as the Shrike, the she-devil casting curses to rectify wrongs. She slammed his bedroom door open, standing there in leather armor, daggers sheathed on each hip. Dirt was smeared across her cheek, and she tossed a man into the room ahead of her.
"Death teaches nothing," she said. "It might be satisfying, for a fleeting moment. But I like seeing you like this, Julian. Sad, pitiful, and wasting away."
Jaskier glared at her, but found he couldn't speak. What use was there?
"This is Aiden," she said, kicking the man in the side. He groaned in pain. "He's here to make sure you don't kill yourself. Or get Witchers involved. Isn't that right, Aiden?" Aiden curled up into a ball, and Jaskier thought he saw the man's emphatic nod. Renfri's eyes landed on Jaskier.
Jaskier struggled to sit up; it seemed to require all his energy to manage it. Renfri's eyes never left his. "Why?" he croaked, voice rough with disuse. He wondered how long it had been since he'd spoken; he couldn't remember.
"You broke Cara's heart."
It wasn't the first time Jaskier had done it. "No."
"She loved you! You spent every night with her, and every ball in the embrace of another. Did you think she wouldn't find out? That none of them would find out?" Renfri scoffed.
"I made no promises I couldn't keep," he rasped.
Renfri grimaced and gestured at him. "I'm tired of your voice."
He clutches his throat, eyes wide, as it went numb. Gone. He tried to speak, but nothing came out. The words seemed to be locked inside his chest, babbling over one another, trying to chase each other out. But there was nowhere for them to go. Jaskier patted at his chest, as though it might free them. As though he could do anything. Instead, a wave of helplessness washed over him. What little energy he had, was spent. He fell back against his pillows, breath shallow. His stomach ached, but it was a dull sensation he'd long since grown accustomed to. No one would love him. No one would ever come to the Lettenhove Estate ever again. It was just him, and his despair, trapped in this place until the damn rose bloomed its last.
She crossed her arms, staring at Jaskier. "This is the last time you'll see me. If you manage to find someone who can fall in love with you, Aiden goes free."
"And if not?" Aiden demanded. "What happens to me then?"
Renfri blinked, tilting her head in consideration. "You die. Your fates are tied together now, and forever."
She disappeared through a green portal, leaving the two men alone.
It took hours for Aiden to get up, and hours more before he returned with a bowl of broth. Jaskier tried not to eat, but he lacked the strength to do much more than spill soup over himself. And by then, the smell of rich salty broth had him salivating. And by then he was accepting the food greedily, ashamed of his own weakness. A passive death hadn't seemed such an awful way to go, he realized as he drank the broth. An easy solution, really. But it seemed the Shrike was determined to extract every minute of his suffering for her own pleasure.
Aiden took care of the shopping, and the cooking. Gradually, as Jaskier's health returned, the two of them fell into a routine. They shared a hot breakfast together, chatting over the newspaper Aiden bought and read aloud. While Jaskier was capable of reading himself, more often than not his clumsy hands tore the paper to shreds before they could discuss world events. Monster sightings had increased lately and there were more jobs for Witchers now than ever before. In the last two centuries, monsters had gotten better at hiding. There'd been discussion and debate about the use of Witchers, whether they were obsolete or not, and during that time the Witchers had packed their swords and guns up and retreated beyond the Blue Mountains into Kaer Morhen.
A few would venture out every summer, and there was still work for them. Curses to break, monsters to kill, and hauntings to disrupt. Jaskier often wondered when it would be his turn. Lettenhove was a gorgeous estate, and while he received a few querying letters that he'd had Aiden reply to, he knew someone would come searching for him one day. Someone would wonder how sick he could be, or a lonesome traveler would catch sight of him in a window and run off calling for a Witcher. And if it wasn't a Witcher who came for him, then the slowly falling rose petals would be the end of him. Jaskier had placed the flower into a vase and left it covered most of the time with a thick cloak so he could ignore the glow. But eventually, he would return to it, check on how many petals had fallen and wonder how much time he had left.
And then, one day, everything changed. A man stumbled into Lettenhove, bleeding and limping. Jaskier would have told him to leave, but he'd never seen Aiden so hopeful before. At least, until he walked past the stairs and they caught sight of the two swords on his back. A Witcher had come for him, then.