Chapter Text
“So, you’re a friend of Geralt’s.”
It’s not necessarily a question or even a statement; it’s somewhere in between, nestled in that soft middleground between fact and assumption. He supposes it’s an easy enough conclusion to come to; after all Geralt wasn’t the type of person to just usher his adopted daughter away with just anyone. Still, he hadn’t exactly been very forthcoming with introductions when he’d swooped in to rescue Ciri earlier and had been more concerned with sending her away to safety rather than delving into the complicated history of their relationship.
Then again, Ciri hadn’t been much in the mood for conversation along the way either or he would have tried to fill her in earlier. Up until this point Ciri had been broody and silent, which shouldn’t have been all that surprising considering who her newfound guardian was, but it made the act of casual conversation rather difficult. He’s not sure how much of that can be chalked up to Ciri being a typical teenager and how much of it is Geralt’s bad influence rubbing off on her but he’s willing to bet it’s a pretty even split.
When she finally speaks to him, nearly an hour after their little party had left the aforementioned Witcher and Yennefer behind, it seems her irritation with Geralt has finally died down enough to attempt a somewhat stiff and stilted conversation.
Jaskier scoffs softly and sits back against the base of the tree he’s been leaning against. “Well, I don’t know about ‘friend’,” he says as nonchalantly as possible, struggling to keep the sharp sting of that word from escaping out into the world as he speaks. “Traveling companion, accomplice, casual acquaintance, there are several names for it, I suppose. Friend seems like a stretch…”
Because again, Geralt had referred to him as nothing of the sort. When he’d ushered them away, there hadn’t been anything along the lines of ‘this is a friend of mine, he’ll keep you safe’ or ‘Jaskier’s a friend, go with him.’ He had simply told Jaskier to get Ciri back to Kaer Morhen and sent them on their way before any questions could be asked.
Jaskier thinks for a moment before adding to the list. “I spent a good number of years traveling from one edge of the Continent to the next, promoting the name and deeds of Geralt of Rivia, so maybe I’m more of a promotional representative.” He frowns and nudges a rock with his boot before muttering, “Although I’ve also done my fair share of smearing his image recently so I’m not sure where that leaves us now.”
Ciri watches him from the corner of her eye but says nothing. He can feel her watching him the same way he can feel Geralt doing it which is unnerving to say the least.
Jaskier sighs heavily and lets his back drop down against the rough bark of the tree. “The truth is, Ciri, I don’t know what we are. I always liked to think of us as friend but the last time I saw Geralt he told me, in no uncertain terms, to fuck off and that he never wanted to see me again so I don’t know that I would really refer to us as friends.”
Ciri considers this for several long, silent moments, long enough to where Jaskier thinks she’s about to drop the subject entirely when she speaks again. “Well, he must think of you as something if he trusts you enough to get me back to Kaer Morhen.”
Jaskier rolls the idea around in his head briefly before offering a small nod. “I suppose you’re right about that. He’s certainly not the type to place his trust in just anyone.”
“He also said you’re afraid of your own shadow so not to rely too much on you to protect me from danger.”
Jaskier balks momentarily before he catches a humorous glint in the princess’ eye and realizes she’s teasing him. He bristles dramatically which makes Ciri smile and it feels like a win. “Well, your great, white Witcher seems to forget all the times I saved his sullen ass from certain death. Always has to be the hero, that one; it figures he would leave that out, the grumpy bastard.”
Ciri giggles quietly then, the first real emotion he’s seen from her in the past few hours, and dips her head in a nod. “He is,” she agrees with a small smile.
They fall into a comfortable silence for a few moments, nothing but the sounds of birds, trickling water, and grumbling dwarves around them. Their breakneck race to Kaer Morhen had been interrupted about half an hour earlier when the wagon they’d been traveling with caught an unexpected pothole and caused one of the wheels to wobble off its axle. It seemed like a relatively easy repair but with multiple surly dwarves arguing and threatening to kill each other over how best to make the repairs it was taking much longer than expected.
While Yarpin and his men snipped and snarled at each other over who’s fault it was that the wheel had become dislodged, the rest of their little traveling party took a break from the ride. Ciri, eager to keep going, paced around anxiously until it became clear that the wagon (and, by extension, their caravan) wasn’t going anywhere in a hurry and that until it was repaired they were effectively stuck.
The dwarven woman, Peony, seemed to sense her frustration and gently led her away from the bickering, cursing dwarves, pulling out a clean cloth from somewhere in the back of the wagon and carefully scrubbing the dirt and dust off of Ciri’s fair skin. She smiled and spoke sweetly to her, assuring her that the wagon would be fixed in no time and then they could resume their journey.
However, as the minutes ticked by with no clear solution in sight, Ciri let out a frustrated sigh and stalked over to the edge of a small creek nearby, sinking down onto the bank and plunging her hands into the cold, clear water to calm herself down.
That’s where Jaskier had found her, making his way carefully and quietly over to her and lowering himself down onto the ground beside her. He’s still sore and bruised all over from having the shit kicked out of him a few days before but it’s nothing he can’t handle. Loathe as he is to admit it, he’s no stranger to crossing paths with the more unsavory underbellies of some of the towns he visits and a punch or two as a parting gift has become more common than not.
So he’s not all that concerned with the twinge in his ribs or the burns along the insides of his palms and the lengths of his fingers that throb with a bone-deep ache that prevents him from being able to close his hand.
He can deal with all that, he thinks.
No, his primary concern at the moment is keeping an eye on Geralt’s newfound daughter and ensuring she develops some social skills outside of the grunts and huffs he’d once been so used to from the Witcher. It was one thing coming from Geralt but he’d hate to see Ciri fall into the same monosyllabic pit her guardian seems content to stay in.
It also would have been helpful if Geralt had told him anything at all about his temporary charge before sending them off to Kaer Morhen. Jaskier has known about Geralt’s child surprise nearly since her conception but that doesn’t mean he knows anything about her now.
Geralt had filled him in on the details in his usual fashion which is to say that he told him absolutely nothing useful other than that Ciri was special, Ciri was in danger, Ciri needed to get back to Kaer Morhen. The gaping holes in his story could have stretched from one side of the Continent to the other but there really hadn’t been enough time to explain fully before he sent them on their way. There had been some half-hearted promise to explain everything later but with the way their luck usually played out, ‘later’ would be two or three days after the entirety of the Continent burned to ash and even then it would get delayed.
So no, Jaskier doesn’t know much of anything about Ciri other than that she’s important to Geralt and that she needs to be protected at all costs. And for the moment that’s enough; if Geralt entrusted her safety to him then Jaskier will put himself between her and sword without a second thought. It would be very helpful to know what she needs to be protected from but that’s asking a bit too much at the moment.
What little he does know about Ciri, however, is that she’s an anxious, fidgety teenager with more pent up energy than she knows what to do with and that, prophetic destiny or not, is typically a bad combination.
He knows that from experience.
“We need to keep moving,” Ciri says after another few moments of silence. She glances back over her shoulder to see the wagon nowhere near repaired and her shoulders sag in defeat. “It’s dangerous to sit around and wait for too long.”
Jaskier spares a glance over his shoulder as well although it's unnecessary; he can tell from the colorful language and threats of bodily harm that their dwarven escorts are closer to killing each other rather than fixing the cart.
“Can’t rush progress,” he mutters quietly, pushing himself up a little more to relieve an odd pressure point jabbing into his ribs. “And you certainly can’t rush dwarves. Believe me, I know. They’re a persnickety bunch and a ten minute repair will take an hour if they’re not satisfied with it.”
Ciri shakes her head, a loose curl of silver-blond hair catching in the breeze as she does. “We don’t have that kind of time.”
Jaskier watches her carefully from his position against the tree and says nothing for a few silent seconds. It seems like the only thing keeping her from leaping back onto her horse and riding off into the wild on her own is the promise she made to Geralt to stay with their little party but Jaskier can tell she’s considering walking back on the promise with each passing second. Waves of anxiety are practically rolling off of her at this point and the longer they sit here idly the worse it becomes.
“Tell me about Cintra,” he transitions smoothly, figuring the best way to soothe her mind was to put it on something else.
Ciri stiffens just slightly at the question and stares out across the winding creek in front of them. “What do you want to know?” she asks, keeping her voice carefully neutral as she speaks.
Jaskier shrugs and stretches one long leg out in front of him. “Well, the last time I was there your grandmother threatened to put all of us behind bars and you, my darling girl,” he says, bumping her shoulder with his and bringing one hand up to show her the very small space between his thumb and his index finger. “Were about this big. Little more than a tadpole, really.”
This earns him a small smile from Ciri and he feels the tiniest bit of triumph for his efforts. “I always meant to go back, it would have made an excellent backdrop for one of my songs, but life happened along the way as it so naturally does.”
Ciri says nothing for a few seconds, measuring her words silently before she speaks. “Cintra is…was,” she corrects herself softly. “Well, I don’t know what it was to be honest. Growing up it always seemed like such a safe place and the people always seemed so happy but looking back now I wonder how much of that was true. I was sheltered and kept away from court politics because I was so young but I never…” she stops again and stares out across the water, letting her words die behind the delicate babble of the creek.
“You don’t have to talk about it if you don’t want to,” Jaskier tells her gently, mentally berating himself for bringing up such a painful subject.
Ciri shakes her head in response. “No, it’s not that it’s just…” she pauses before continuing and takes a steadying breath. “The longer I’m away from it, the more it seems my memories of Cintra are vastly different than what it truly was. Where I saw a safe haven, others saw it as the home of a warlord. I didn’t see it as a child because I didn’t understand but as I got older I think I didn’t see it simply because I didn’t want to.”
She sighs and pulls a long, thin dagger from the side of her boot and begins absently scratching patterns and symbols into the dirt near her foot. “I feel like my whole life has been shrouded in secrets and lies to the point where I couldn’t say what was true and what wasn’t. And my description of Cintra would likely be the same; whatever I tell you probably won’t be accurate.”
She looks over at him then, her green eyes bright and sharp in the soft afternoon light. “All I know for sure is that Cintra was my home and now it’s gone. My friends, my family, everything I once knew is all gone.”
“That must have been very hard for you,” Jaskier says quietly, watching as she continues to carve little trenches into the soft sand of the riverbank. Ciri says nothing but manages a small nod in response, the tip of her blade pausing its slow scrawl through the sand.
“You know,” Jaskier says, sitting up a bit straighter so he can level his gaze with Ciri. “I may not be a Witcher like Geralt or a powerful mage like Yennefer but I am human and I do understand the complexities of human emotions. I know what it feels like to suffer from fear and loss and heartbreak and I know you must be feeling some of that too. You are special, Ciri, there’s no denying that, but you’re also a child who has lost her home and it’s cruel to expect you to simply suck it up and move on.”
The emotions on the girl’s face are unreadable as the bard speaks and he can feel the intensity of her gaze sharpen as he continues.
“My point is,” Jaskier says, reaching out to catch the wayward curl that falls across Ciri’s shoulder and tucking it carefully back behind her ear. “You can be as tough and brave and stubborn as you want in front of everyone else but you don’t have to do that in front of me. I make my living trying to understand and decipher human emotions and while they can be a burden most of the time, that doesn’t mean you have to ignore them.”
Ciri smiles softly and scrubs at one eye with the back of her hand to remove the evidence of what might have been a tear; Jaskier will never say. “You know, I think you are the first person who has said that to me since Cintra fell,” she tells him with another small, watery smile, her voice shaking just a bit as she speaks.
She takes a slow breath and closes her eyes, letting her head fall back so the afternoon sun illuminates her face. A few wayward beams reflect off her ashen hair, turning it platinum for a few brief moments. “To be honest I don’t know what I am anymore, human or otherwise.”
She opens her eyes and gazes up at the brilliant sky above them. “Some people treat me as a weapon while some treat me as a savior…I don’t know who to believe anymore.”
“What you are, Cirilla,” Jaskier tells her evenly. “Is a young woman who has had too much thrust on her shoulders in a very short amount of time. Destiny played you a rotten hand, darling, there’s no denying that, but that doesn’t change the fact that there are people out there who will keep you safe. Your grandmother, myself, even our surly dwarven escorts over there will do everything in their power to keep you from harm.”
Jaskier slumps back against the tree with a small huff. “Granted, Yennefer’s loyalties are still questionable,” he says with a shrug before continuing. “But you can believe me when I tell you that Geralt will fight every monster and beast that comes your way with his bare hands if it means keeping you safe. He’s a right bastard, make no mistake, but there’s not a man on this Continent I would trust more with your safety.”
He clears his throat and straightens his shoulders slightly. “And if you ever tell him I said any of that I will deny it and tell everyone I come across that you are a pathological liar.”
Ciri laughs and rolls her eyes and Jaskier vows silently, then and there, that he’ll do everything he can to keep that smile on her face from now on.
A whoop of triumph echoes from behind them and they both turn to see the wagon up and operational again, the damaged wheel replaced with a new, sturdier one that looks more than capable of completing the journey. Peony waves them over and begins reloading their cargo into the back of the wagon while Yarpin and his men set about tying everything down. They weren’t hauling much but the breakneck speed they’d been traveling with earlier had left everything loose and rattled in the back end of the wagon.
Jaskier stands and offers Ciri his hand, plucking her from the riverbank like she weighs nothing at all. He flashes her a charming smile and tucks her arm through his, carefully guiding her away from the water’s edge. “Come along, princess, let’s get you to Kaer Morhen.”