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It was still night when Jaskier slipped out of the gates of Kaer Morhen. If he were to hazard a guess, it must have been just before three in the morning.
The witching hour.
It’s late enough that Geralt and the rest of the surviving witchers are fast asleep, drunk off their arses from what Geralt had said was “White Gull, Jaskier. No you can’t have any because you are human and it would kill you. Gruesomely. I am broody and no fun”. Jaskier would have bitched more, but--
Well, it was a rough day. A rough few days, if he were to be completely honest. And he always is, mind you! And he learned his lesson about pushing Geralt at times like those. He had to find his own way back down that bloody mountain, angry and heartbroken, and he refuses to have a repeat experience.
Geralt deserves a bit of rest after all the bullshit destiny has pulled recently. Besides, the witchers being passed out, properly sloshed out of their wits, did serve his needs in the end.
He has words to say, frustration burning away the exhaustion that weighs at his bones. He would do this in the morning, were he not certain he would be noticed, which would lead to questions, and the last thing he wants to do is explain the bullshittery of his existence to a man whom vehemently hates Destiny and only recently decided that he didn’t despise Jaskier’s being. And as he said before, he would rather not try sliding down these mountains, thank you very much.
Of course, all of that leads him to this moment, Jaskier shivering in the dead of night, a coat and boots that frankly do piss all for the mountain chill, with a half broken lantern lighting the way so that he doesn’t fall and snap his neck.
In the distance, a chorus of wolves begin to howl. Bloody brilliant.
It’ll all be worth it, though. He’s too stubborn for it not to be, so he follows the tugging in his chest (of fucking course it was in the direction of the howling wolves. Because Destiny is a rotten old bitch who doesn’t know when to stop). He grumbles, and grouches, and jumps at every sound and stumble, but eventually he makes it to where she was pushing him.
It’s a small cave, if one could call it that. Honestly, with the amount of entrances, it could be considered a ravine, but a cave is more poetic. Things tend to happen in caves, and Jaskier needs a thing to happen, so he will call this place a cave.
In the center of the cave is a raised platform, and the light is barely bright enough to reveal a vague silhouette of a- man? Jaskier steps closer and, yup, that seems to be a man. Or the corpse of one. Or the corpse of a man that looks like an incubus fucked an evergreen.
…Really?
Look, Jaskier isn’t the brightest when it comes to tact. Even the greatest bards have their flaws, after all, but must this conversation happen in front of the remains of some poor dead guy? Franky, that seemed rude.
The pull led him here, though, and he doesn’t know when he’ll get another chance to do this without worrying about someone overhearing things they shouldn’t, so he takes a deep breath and begins to talk.
“Alright you massive bull’s cock. You’ve had your fun, you’ve messed with these poor fuckers plenty, and now I’m here to tell you to back. The fuck. Off!” His voice is the only disturbance in the air, and that just adds fuel to the fire. “Oi don’t you even think about ignoring me! After everything those people back there have gone through, they deserve a fucking win. And you’re gonna give them one. I don’t care if it messes up your precious plans or whatever bullshit you’re cooking up this time. You are going to give them a goddamned miracle of a win, even if it breaks the universe itself you self obsessed, arrogant, bastard. Find some gods damned decency in that lump of shite you call a heart or I swear to Melitele’s tits I you won’t like what I do!”
He punctuated every line by kicking nearby rocks, his arms gesticulating so fiercely the lantern’s flame was nearly snuffed out. When he finally slowed his tirade, the world seemed as still as when he had started. Yet, the bard must have felt something in the air, an acceptance perhaps, because instead of launching into another speech full of expletives and spite, he simply huffed in victorious satisfaction, as though he gave someone a full piece of his mind. He turned on his heel and began the trek back.
Jaskier had accomplished what he wanted that night, and it was a long enough walk back to the fortress. He could almost feel the warmth of the furs that awaited him back in his room, and hummed at the thought of future comfort. How his poor witcher left the keep every spring to rough it on the road, Jaskier would never know.
He began to whistle a jaunty tune, heading back to hearth and promised heat. When he finally reentered the witcher’s home, he was already half asleep, oblivious to the world and the pair of golden eyes that followed his every move.
---
Jaskier wakes to the sound of knocking on his door. He groans, his mind foggy and slow as it resists waking and rising from the warmth of the furs around him. He’s half tempted to roll over and go back to sleep, but the gruff voice of an annoyed witcher rouses him to awareness.
“Jaskier. Lunch. Kitchen,” Geralt’s voice is twinged with pain, and concern for his witcher chases away the last dregs of his sleep.
He slides out of bed, grabs his coat, and throws open the door. “My dear witcher, are you alright? You sound in pain, did something happen?” It takes a glare from his old friend and a precious few seconds of roaming eyes looking for new wounds before the dots connected in the bard’s mind.
“Oh- oh ho ho! Geralt, dear, are you hungover?” Jaskier cackled as Geralt’s glare seemed to deepen. “I thought you witchers couldn’t get hungover. How many times is it that you’ve had no sympathy for my poor state after I found myself too deep in my cups!”
“Jaskier, I’m not in the mood,” Geralt practically growled, clearly not sharing in Jaskier’s amusement. As the events of the previous day sank in, Jaskier’s mood sank. Right. There was a reason for Geralt to get so drunk.
Even so, Jaskier tries his best to alleviate the mood. He doesn’t prod at Geralt, but he does hum a slight tune. Geralt doesn’t acknowledge the noise, but he also doesn’t yell at Jaskier, so Jaskier counts it as a win.
Surprisingly, most of the remaining witchers were still down at the dining hall, as well as Ciri and Yennefer. Vesemir passes Jaskier a bool and spoon, and Jaskier takes it upon himself to collect breakfast before sitting down beside Geralt’s cub.
“Good morning Jaskier,” Ciri tries for a smile, but Jaskier can tell how forced it is.
“Bard.”
“Witch,” Jaskier acknowledges the other girl at the table. It’s strange how his relationship with Yennefer has shifted, ever since she found him smuggling refugees to safety. The banter was the same, but it seemed to lack the previous venom, and half the time Jaskier was fighting off a smile during their verbal spats. “I’m not sure if you’ve noticed, but our dear witcher seems to be suffering from a particular type of ailment this morning. Don’t suppose you can magic up a cure?”
Yennefer raises one too perfect eyebrow, “Of course, but he’ll have to ask me himself if he wants any relief. I am perfectly content in letting him stew, otherwise.”
“Still furious at our white wolf then?” Jaskier takes a drink of ale, and grimaces at the taste. What he would give for a stronger brew.
“You’re not? I didn’t think you were one to forget a grudge so easily.”
“I’m enough of a man to accept that I don’t have that privilege,” Jaskier admits. Yes, the apology in the cell was short and lacking, but he honestly didn’t expect one at all. He glances over at Geralt, who was conversing lowley with the other witchers across the room. “And I don’t think I could truly stay away from Geralt even if I truly wanted to. A sad truth, but a truth nonetheless.”
There was more to it than a man blind to the world for his muse, of course. If Jaskier were a different being, maybe he would be able to break off from the man who is tangled up in things leagues bigger than him. But then, if Jaskier were a different man he may have never followed the man from Posada in the first place. The fact remains, that Jaskier is who he is, and that like it or not Geralt needs him. They all need him, and he was there for a reason not even he could resist.
Yennefer had that look in her eyes, the spark that says she knows that he isn’t telling the whole story. That desire to pluck the truth from his lips, and Jaskier honestly doesn’t know how she would react if she found out the truth.
He was saved, it seems, by the result of the previous night's mission. The witchers all froze as the doors to the keep swung open, and a man stumbles in. His clothes are more rags than functional items, and reveal a heavily scarred chest. His brown hair falls loose around his face. Part of his face was heavily marred by old scars, twisting his mouth into a perpetual grimace, but Jaskier had no doubt that this man meant no harm.
His eyes faintly glow with the tell tale golden eyes of a witcher, and though he was hunched over in cold and exhaustion, he appeared to be in perfect health.
Jaskier could practically taste the sudden tension that filled the old keep.
Huh. So that’s why he was led to that cave.
The previously dead man broke the moment as he stumbled in, heading towards the fire and the witchers before it.
“I- Eskel?” the red haired witcher, Lambert, whispers the name in disbelief. Eskel, for that must be the name of the man, looks over the remaining witchers before his eyes rest on Vesemir.
“What happened?” For such an imposing figure, his voice is surprisingly gentle.
Geralt takes a hesitant step forward, and Jaskier sees a flash of metal as he palms a dagger from his belt. “You’re supposed to be dead. I killed you.”
“I know. I don’t know,” Jaskier can see the hesitance in the man’s posture. He clearly wants to move closer, but something is holding him back. “I was dead, I think, and then I heard a voice? And then the sun was rising and I was awake in the graveyard.” Eskel’s eyes flicker back to Vesemir. “Honestly, I was hoping you had some answers.”
Lambert starts to move towards Eskel, but Geralt’s arm shoots out to hold him back.
“What the fuck, Geralt,” Lambert practically snarls at the older man, “That’s fucking Eskel, we’ve gotta make sure he’s not about to fucking keel over again!”
“Eskel’s dead, Lambert,” Geralt replies, sudden steel in his voice. He doesn’t take his gaze off of the perceived threat, but he visibly tenses for a fight. Out of the corner of his eye, Jaskier sees Yen step protectively in front of Ciri. “What are you? A doppler?”
Eskel shakes his head, “I’m not anything, Geralt. I swear. Even the leshy’s influence is gone. I would never risk harm upon any of you again, I would have never come near this place if I thought I was a threat.”
Vesemir steps forward this time. His face is impassive, but he holds himself so tightly Jaskier knows he is doing everything in his power not to break down. Geralt grits his teeth, but makes no move to stop his mentor.
When Vesemir is just out of arm's reach of Eskel, he draws his sword. Silver. Jaskier learned to recognize the slight differences between the two years ago. Silver for monsters.
Ciri gasps. Lambert lunges forward, but Geralt is quicker, grabbing onto his midsection and lifting him off of the ground. Eskel raises his hands in surrender, eyeing the sword warily but making no move in retaliation.
Vesemir’s gaze is steady as he raises his arm. The silver glints in the air. Jaskier holds his breath as the flat of the blade rests upon Eskel’s bare neck. No one dares to move, no one dares to breathe. One beat.
Two.
Eskel’s skin remains unchanged. Unburnt. One trembling hand touches the medallion around Vesemir's neck.
A sword clatters against the ground, and a father embraces his son.
That is proof enough for the rest of the witchers, who all move as one pack, reaching their newly found brother. Jaskier allows himself a small, satisfied smile at the scene. This may have not been what he had in mind when he argued Destiny, but he knew that it’s what was needed.
“How?” Geralt’s voice rasps from the pile of witchers. “I- This is impossible. How?”
There was a familiar pressure in Jaskier’s chest. Ah, it was his turn to step in and do what a bard does best. Act.
“Alright, who the fuck is this and why are we crying over him?” Jaskier saunters closer to the group of witchers. As if they all remember their audience at once, the pile disperses until only Vesemir and Lambert remain on either side of Eskel.
“That’s Eskel,” Ciri is the one to answer his question, which surprises Jaskier. He turns to the young girl as Eskel is led to sit by the fire. “He was here when I first came to Kaer Morhen. He was infected by a Leshy summoned by my scream. I- Geralt had to stop him from killing everyone in the keep.”
“Ah. That’s… gruesome,” so that explains the whole evergreen look his corpse had. That really did seem to be a tragic fate. Maybe Jaskier could help him out as well. He could already feel a melody begin to form in his head.
The rest of the day seemed to pass in a blur. Instead of the usual chores to perform around the keep, the witchers stayed together in the dining hall. Stories were exchanged, White Gull was consumed again, Eskel was caught up in events. The witchers mourned those they lost, and they celebrated those they found, and Eskel insisted that Jaskier play Toss a Coin. Most importantly, they healed, just a little bit.
-
Once again, it is late at night, and Jaskier is cold. Instead of wandering a dark forest, Jaskier has found himself at the top of one of the towers of the Keep. He doesn’t always pay respects after his words are heeded, but he felt Destiny’s presence and he was never one to ignore his Lady.
At least the view of the stars were marvelous from his vantage point. Jaskier will never tire of looking at the beauty of the sky. It was his home after all.
Jaskier doesn’t realize that someone has joined him until the man sits next to him. When he does notice, he jumps and can’t contain his gasp.
“Melitele’s tits! You scared me,” Jaskier presses a hand to his chest to calm his now racing heart.
“Calm bard, it’s just me,” Vesemir, the old bastard, replies.
They sat in silence for a minute, Jaskier trying to figure out what to say to the other witcher who hadn’t paid him much attention until now. Vesemir seemed content in the silence, but Jaskier has always been a creature of movement and noise.
He clears his throat, trying to break the silence when Vesemir interrupts him. “I still don’t understand how Eskel is here.”
Jaskier nearly chokes, but recovers quickly. “Yeah. Wild how that happened. He, uh, seemed like a nice guy. Liked my singing and all that, and everyone seemed pretty happy to see him. And you know what they say about, about gift… horses… and mouths,” Jaskier trails off at the stare Vesemir pins him with.
Does he know?
No, Jaskier is just paranoid.
Probably.
Hopefully.
“Thank you,” Vesemir smiles, genuine. This time, Jaskier really does choke. He coughs and splutters for a good minute before he can even begin to gather his wits again.
“I- what? No,” for being a bard, Jaskier is astoundingly terrible with words when he needs them. “No no no, I don’t know what you think happened, but I assure you that is not the case. Nope, I had nothing to do with Eskel’s, his thing,” Good job, Jaskier. “And even if I did, you have no way of proving it so no one would believe you anyways!” Bad job, Jaskier.
Vesemir keeps smiling throughout Jaskiers piss poor denial, and only when he begins to trail off into panic does he continue to speak. “It’s okay, I won’t do anything.”
“You won’t?” At this point, Jaskier has no idea what’s going on, but he has a distinct feeling that Destiny is laughing at him. The bastard. “I mean, I have no idea what you mean.”
“I saw you leave the keep last night. I followed you to the graveyard, and heard your entire speech. Very impressive, I might add,” was that mirth Jaskier sees in the old witcher’s eyes? “Thank you.”
“I can’t bring the rest back,” Jaskier blurts out before Vesemir could try to ask him. He then inwardly cringed at his lack of tact. “I can’t do anything more than this. I’m sorry.”
Jaskier expected demands, once he was caught. He expected yelling, and accusations, anger and wariness. Not this. Not the crinkle of a yellow eye. He never expected someone to accept this all so easily.
Vesemir returns his gaze to the skies. Jaskier glances back at the many pin pricks across the stars. Even after all this time, it’s easy to pick out the constellations. It’s easy to find his own. His being, his name, his entirety secretly painted across the sky to look down at all of humanity.
And as he traces his own pattern, Destiny does as she is sometimes known to do. She gives him a hint.
“You know, don’t you?” Jaskier’s voice is barely a whisper. “I didn’t think anyone knew we existed.”
“I’ve never met one of your kind, or have never known it if I did. My mentor, however, explained to me the existence of Destiny’s Wards. They go where they’re needed, watching over us all. I never knew if it were true, until today,” Vesemir explained. A gentle breeze ruffled Jaskier’s hair, fond in all its chill.
“I do have to ask, what do you deliver to us waiting masses?” he continues. “Who are you, really?”
Jaskier smiles, then. He takes pride in his work, loves it, loves life as he was always meant to. Loves the beauty and the tragedy. It’s why he’s a bard. It’s in his soul, just as loud as her melody.
He takes a moment to gather his words, and begins to tell his story for the first time in his long, long life. “Destiny cannot care. She has her plans, and they were set in stone the moment the spheres combined. I have no power to halt what is written. But she can understand that you all are in pain, so she sent me. As a balm, to make sure that whatever you must go through, you can recover. I go where needed, whether it be to follow a stubborn wolf to the edge of the world, or to save a sorceress who thought she lost everything.”
Jaskier feels his lady’s presence against his back. Though no wind blows, he seems to understand the words Destiny utters in his ear. Here is her gratitude for his actions. Someone who can know his purpose, his burden, his path, him.
“I’m her Mercy.”
And the stars above seem to shine, just a shade brighter.