Chapter Text
Another cheap ale, in another dirty tavern, in another nameless town, while another mediocre bard sings another maudlin ballad.
Another failure.
She closes her eyes and tips the remainder of the rapidly warming liquid down her throat, wincing at its bitterness.
The rumours of a cure for infertility had once again proved to be untrue. A charlatan making a name for himself with old wives tales and kitchen table concoctions. He'd nearly pissed himself in fright at the sight of her. As soon as she'd entered the pitiful excuse for a shop, she knew there was no cure to be had. The man wouldn't have known real chaos if it had bit him on the arse.
She'd left a little bit emptier than she'd gone in. A little bit of hope had left her, as it had with each failed attempt at finding a solution. Hope has always been difficult for her. So fragile, and so easily snatched away in a moment. She'd had hopes about how her life might turn out, only for them to be dashed at every turn.
Since absconding from Aedirn's court, she has maintained a low profile, keeping to back roads and never staying in one place for too long. She's not entirely sure what the Brotherhood's stance is on defection, but she's fairly certain they don't approve. She can only imagine their take on a sorceress attempting to find a way to have a child. So she keeps herself hidden. She uses cloaking spells if she needs to use a portal, and muting spells to mask the signature of her magic.
Despite this, she is under no illusion that, if they wanted to, the Brotherhood could locate her. If not the Brotherhood, then certainly Tissaia. She's never fully understood Tissaia's ability to sense chaos in others to such a specific degree. Yennefer can tell if another person possesses a connection to chaos, of course, but Tissaia's link to it seems to go far deeper than that. She senses changes in people's chaos. She can tell where they are, physically. She always knew what Yennefer was up to at Aretuza, always gave her a knowing look after she'd been with Istredd, or a shake of the head if she'd been playing with herbs with Fringilla and Sabrina. She was all knowing.
Which, Yennefer can only conclude, means that the Brotherhood doesn't give a shit about finding her. Or just doesn't give a shit about her in general. No change there, then.
Leaving Aedirn in the way she did left her with big, unanswered questions about the route her life would take. Where would she go? What would she do? How would her life have purpose now she was not a King's mage?
She always comes back to that dead little Princess on the beach. While her blue lips offered no answers, the idea of her would not leave. A child would give her life purpose. To raise a child well is a noble endeavour - to love it as she would have wanted to be loved, to protect it as fiercely as she wished her own mother had protected her.
Then, slowly, that idea had become a focus; an obsession even.
If she isn't to have a child, then what is the point? An lifetime peddling stupid love spells and impotence cures to peasants? No, she is more than some hedge witch. She has to be. She didn't go through everything she's been through to waste away in anonymity, unknown and unloved. She has to mean something to someone. She has to be something. She has to be remembered for something other than her many failures.
"Excuse me, is this seat taken?"
Yennefer looks up, surprised. It's the bard from the corner of the tavern. She hadn't even noticed that the music had stopped. She sets aside her empty tankard and fixes him with an appropriately bored stare. He sits down without waiting for her agreement, this irks her more than it should. He's less intimidated by her than normal folk tend to be. He's just gawping at her, a wide grin on his face.
"Am I to guess your ailment?" she says, when he doesn't say anything. She lets her eyes glide to his crotch. "You are seeking help to regain vigour, perhaps?"
"Vigour?" He follows her gaze then looks up with a frown. "Oh! No. No problems in that area." He leans in and waggles his eyebrows. "No problems whatsoever."
She wrinkles her nose. "Then what? A love potion? Looking to tempt some poor wench into your bed?"
"No, no." He holds up his hands. "Again, I require no help with any of that."
With a sigh, she widens her eyes. "Then why are you sitting at my table, wasting my time?"
He leans forward, fingers steepled beneath his chin. "I have a proposition for you."
She laughs, once. "No thank you."
He frowns. "You don't know what it is yet."
"I can make an educated guess at it," Yennefer says, growing more annoyed by his persistence. "All men are fairly easy to read." She stands up, meaning to leave. "As I said, no thank you."
"Oh!" He stands too, stepping into her path. And he has the audacity to laugh. He shakes his head. "No, I don't want to sleep with you!"
The tavern stills as all eyes turn to them. Yennefer meets their gazes, one by one, causing them to turn away. She turns her attention back to her unwanted companion.
"Why not?" She hides a smirk behind an empty mask. She doesn't give a fuck whether he wants to sleep with her or not, but it's always nice to make men squirm wherever possible.
"Why n- Oh. Well. That is to say." He gestures vaguely at her. "Not that I wouldn't sleep with you. I mean, you're not abhorrent or anything-"
"Not-" She folds her arms across her chest. "-abhorrent. Praise indeed."
His eyes bulge when he hears his words repeated. "That's-" He laughs nervously, then swallows. "That is, clearly, a misleading statement."
"Oh? So I am abhorrent, then?"
He closes his eyes and presses his lips together, which, she surmises, he has to do often, if this is his manner. She waits.
Opening his eyes, he continues in a more considered approach. "You are, clearly, the most beautiful woman in this tavern." She lifts an eyebrow and he realises his mistake. "In this town, nay, in this kingdom, I would wager."
"And yet, you would not take me to your bed." She sighs. "How am I to go on with my life after such a slight?"
"Listen, I fear we've got off on the wrong foot." He stands and thrusts a hand at her. "Jaskier, at your service."
She doesn't shake his hand. But she does take her seat once more. He, of course, takes this as encouragement to continue and sits back down.
"You've made it clear that you do not wish to buy any of my services, and that I am not quite beautiful enough for you to take to bed, so I must once again wonder what it is that's brought you to my table, uninvited."
"I want us to work together."
"Work together." She blinks. "You don't have a lick of magic in you. Why on earth would I go into business with a mere human?"
"You have something of an-" He pauses to swallow. "-image problem."
She frowns, thrown. "No, I don't."
"You come across as aloof, unapproachable."
"Yes," she agrees. "Which is exactly the image I want to portray, so I see no problem."
"That is no way to peddle your wares," he protests. "Surely you are used to a certain lifestyle? Why would you scrape by on passing trade when you could have crowds flocking to you for your little spells and hexes?"
"I'm not a village herbalist," Yennefer says. "I don't do 'little spells and hexes'. I am a sorceress, trained at Aretuza." For all she can barely stand to think of the place, she does invoke its name fairly often.
"Exactly," Jaskier says, and Yennefer can't help but think she's walked into a trap of sorts. "Which is what you should be putting out there. Credentials. Happy customers. An air of intrigue, if you wish it. But you need to tell people you are here." He looks at their surroundings. "Well, maybe not here. But somewhere."
"And what would you get out of this?" Yennefer says, mildly interested in his proposal. She definitely could do with more money. She gets by, mostly, and if occasionally she has to cast a charm on the odd innkeeper for her bed and board, then so be it. But it would be nice to have a steady income. Perhaps even a place to call her own, where she could stop running. A home.
He frowns at her. "What do you mean?"
"Well, according to you, I'll be getting world renown, increased custom and more coin than I can spend." She juts out her chin. "What would you expect in return?"
"Oh." His hands flutter before he clasps them together and sets them on the table. Well, I think I would likely benefit in numerous ways from a friendship with an all powerful mage-"
"Friendship was never discussed," Yennefer cuts him off. "This was a business proposal."
"Acquaintance, then." He laughs, nervously, and leans in. "I have something of a habit of...getting on the wrong side of, well, spouses." He spreads his arms out. "An unfortunate ramification of my good looks and dazzling wit is that women, and men, tend to fall in love with me quite easily. And their spouses are often not happy about that."
"So it's protection you're after." Yennefer shakes her head. "That's a bit of a mundane role for a mage of my standing."
"A mage who is scraping by, performing tricks in a tavern for peasants?" His eyes go wide when he realises what he's said. "I mean- that is to say-"
Yennefer laughs, the sound as unexpected to herself as it is to him. "You've got a set of balls on you, I'll give you that."
"Yes, those are quite often what the spouses are gunning for," Jaskier says, obviously relieved at her reaction.
"You've managed to hold onto them this long," Yennefer notes. "Why do you suddenly need a bodyguard?"
He shrugs. "I don't know. I've seen you sitting here the past few evenings and-" He smiles, ducking his head a little. "I must confess to eavesdropping on a few of your consultations. You're clearly bright, and you're funny, even if your wit is wasted on your audience most of the time. And I thought-" He smiles. "I don't know, really. I thought we might get on. And I really do think we could be useful to each other. My songs are sung the length and breadth of the Continent."
She regards him for a moment, then lifts her chin so she can look down at him. "As you've pointed out, I am a powerful mage and yet I choose to practice my magic anonymously in taverns. Does that not tell you something about my feelings on fame?"
"You do nothing to mask your appearance," he points out. "Nor your name. You could present yourself as an old, nameless hag, and yet you do not." He lifts his eyebrows. "I'd say, if anything, you're trying to be noticed."
There's a tightening in her chest, as if he's pierced the very fabric of her being. Hasn't she been trying to be noticed all her life? By her mother, when she became one of more than half a dozen children. By her father, to make him understand that she could do things, that she was more than a burdensome mouth to feed. By Tissaia.
Always by fucking Tissaia.
She thinks of her younger self and wonders what she would say to a bard offering to write songs about her. Songs that would be sung all over the Continent, no less. She thinks of her days at Aretuza, when one of the girls would hear a snippet of a song during a visit to a nearby town and they would all sing it for months. She imagines tales of her exploits reaching Tissaia's ears and her heart quickens.
She tilts her head at the bard. Jaskier. She can't say she took any note of his musical talent before, but he seems confident in his abilities. She nods to his lute, leaning against a nearby chair.
"Go on then. Sing me something."
"What? Now?" He laughs. "I haven't- I mean-"
"This is your one chance," Yennefer tells him. "If you can't perform under pressure, then you are of no use to me."
"No, well, I didn't say I couldn't perform!"
Jaskier grabs his lute, plucking at the strings and tightening a couple. He mutters under his breath, a jumble of words she can't quite make out. After a few moments, he nods to himself and stands. He runs his fingers across the strings, the instrument emitting a pleasing, deep sound. The patrons of the tavern look over and Jaskier turns to give her a wink before taking a deep breath and launching into a jaunty song.
"Found yourself lacking, where once you stood tall?
No wood in the morning, no stirrings at all?"
The gathered audience rumbles with amusement. Yennefer bows her head to hide her smile.
"Whether through injury, pressure or age,
For a miracle cure, just speak to the mage!"
He finishes with a flourish and gets a ripple of applause. Bowing as if he were on stage and some grant concerto, he returns to his seat, eyebrows high and expectant.
"Well?"
"That was fucking awful," Yennefer says. "Really."
"It was a first attempt!" he protests. "And completely improvised!." He sighs. "Yes, it was awful. But I will hone it. It will be a masterpiece."
"I doubt that, bard." She appraises him. "But you may have your uses."
His eyes widen. "Really?" He slaps the table. "Well, shit. I didn't actually expect you to take me up on this."
"Then we are both surprised by my decision," she admits. "I'm planning to leave this town tomorrow. I've heard talk of some possibilities in Rinde." She lifts her chin. "The journey will, hopefully, afford you time to come up with some better verse."
"Oh, yes, of course," he says, nodding like an eager puppy. "I do my best thinking on the road. I will no doubt have a grand ballad or two finished by the time we reach Rinde." He wrinkles his nose. "Your name might cause problems. Not many words rhyme with Yennefer. Or Vengerberg, come to think of it."
"Then you shall have to get creative," Yennefer says.
He nods, and a mischievous twinkle appears in his eye. "I'll be fine, I'm sure. Plenty of things rhyme with 'witch'."
She narrows her eyes at his clear teasing. "Sorceress."
"That's more difficult, but I am a skilled wordsmith," he says, his chest puffing out. He lifts his tankard. "To a prosperous business relationship!"
Yennefer sighs, but picks up her nearly empty tankard of now very warm ale.
"We'll see, bard. We'll see."