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Buttercup was the first, back when the Witchers formed as a single order. With rich, chestnut hair, and almost inhumanely blue eyes, he strode up to Morgraig carrying a lyre and a willpower strong enough to topple empires. He proclaimed that every order needed a bard to sing their tales, and he was going to be the Witcher's Bard. Against an aura as radiant as the sun, and a kindness unfamiliar to them, they could hardly argue with him.
For fifty seven years, Buttercup was a steadfast ally to the Order of the Witchers, continuing to support and cherish every one of them, even as he grew gray and frail and weak. In the end, he was only human, and old age came for him. But he wasn't satisfied with that.
Buttercup stood his ground in front of the gods themselves, looked Destiny in the eye, and he demanded they return him, in what form, he did not care, only that he belong to the Witchers, for they still needed him.
Admiring his devotion and determination, they agreed. Destiny bound the very essence of his soul to Witcher-kind, for better or for worse, and Buttercup, in return, blessed their eyes, turning them as yellow as the flowers of his name, so that they would always be able to see the light in the dark, and make their way back to him.
Thus, he was reborn, once again, as a human bard.
When he came of age, Solidago strode up to Morgraig carrying a fiddle and a willpower strong enough to topple empires, proclaiming he was to be their Bard. He didn't look the same, with rich, dark skin and hair black as the ocean depths, nor did he recall his prior life, but his eyes were still that almost inhuman blue, and his aura was as golden as ever.
There was skepticism, and reluctance, but they allowed him to stay. And once again, Solidago was a steadfast ally to the Witchers, determined to do everything in his power to help them. But, once again, his body was only human, though his soul was now something more, and old age claimed him.
The cycle began anew, and he was reborn as a human bard named Daffodil, who played the vihuela.
And again, as a human bard named Sunflower, who played the dulcimer.
And again, as a human bard named Marigold, who played the gittern.
And again, as a human bard named Lantana, who played the mandolin.
And again, as a human bard named Dahlia, who played the zither.
And again, as a human bard named Honeysuckle, who played the rebab.
And again, as a human bard named Nemesia, who played the citole.
Every time the features change. But - man or woman, dark skinned or pale as snow, blonde or brunette or redhead, tall or short - Buttercup *always* comes back as a human bard, with more or less the same personality, a stubborn determination to help Witchers, a name of golden flowers, and eyes a shade of almost inhuman blue seen only with their bard.
It did not take long for the Witchers to catch on, having figured out Solidago was their bard, reborn and returned to them. Even as the Order of Witchers split, and eventually settled into the Seven Schools, young Witchers are taught, as they're trained, that if they should ever come across a Sunlit Bard with eyes the glowing blue of a sky at dusk, who looks at them with no fear, nor hatred, that they are NEVER to harm them. In fact, they're to PROTECT them, if they can, and bring them back to the Witcher keeps, if they'll come. For their Sunlit Bard has always been their unwavering ally through the centuries. The one steadfast presence in their lives.
The Sunlit Bard traveled amongst the schools, and though their differing opinions and methods had divided them, they remained united as Witchers through their bard. He was the closest thing to a deity that they had. The Elves, the Dwarves, the humans, they all had their patron deity, who claimed them as their people, and were claimed in return. The Witchers had no such god, but they didn't need nor want one. They had their bard.
Dandelion was the last one. He was killed during the pogroms, for his firm stance that Witchers were friends, not foes. He was killed. Formally executed for daring to speak out against the crown for: "The stupidity to attack a group of people just for being different than you!"
He was beheaded right next to a struggling and beaten Witcher named Luka, in the throne room of the King of Kaedwan, while the Witcher struggled and begged them not to hurt the bard. He was beheaded himself barely a moment later.
Before him, every Sunlit Bard had met their ends peacefully, succumbing to age after a life spent amongst Witchers, tended to the last minute. He was the first to have been killed. They never got to perform funeral rights.
Between that, and the fact the Witcher population was utterly decimated, they'd lost hope he'd ever return.
Decades went by without the familiar golden aura and blue eyes returning to them, and with each passing one, every year only filling with more animosity without their Bard with a song to temper the ill will of the people, they lost hope that he would ever return.
_-_-_-_-_-_
Geralt barely remembers the stories of his youth, Dandelion having been killed when he was only a freshly grassed Pup. Vesemir rarely mentions the Sunlit Bard these days, only really in passing. Oh, all Witcher's have heard the legends, of course. But... that's all they are now, aren't they? Legends. Stories from a time long passed. He hasn't been seen in almost a century, now, when before, he'd have shown up again within twenty years.
Then Jaskier harassed his way into the White Wolf's life.
Jaskier, with his name of golden flowers, his stunning blue eyes, his stubborn insistence on fixing Geralt's reputation with his music, the way he seemed to almost glow under the sun to his twice mutated eyes... really, the fact it took Geralt so long to catch on is shameful.
It wasn't until Jaskier was cursing out the elves for hurting Geralt that it clicked.
"Leave off!! He's just a bard!" He'd snapped.
Oh God's, he'd HIT him earlier. Not nearly as hard as he could have, the bard would be dead, if that were the case, but still hard enough to leave a tender spot in his stomach, and knock the breath out of him. And now he was being struck over and over again by the bitter elves, and there wasn't jack fucking shit he could do to protect him!
The wounded sound he makes when his lute is shattered is more pained than any he'd made whole being beaten, and it makes Geralt ache.
Then, thank all the gods, they're let out. Filivandrel goes as far as to give the bard his own lute, which Jaskier takes while near drooling over the beautiful instrument. While he's distracted gleefully tuning it to his liking, Filivandrel turns to Geralt. "...He's THE bard, isn't he, Witcher?"
Geralt hesitates, but nods slowly. "I think so." He murmurs.
"...I remember Dandelion. I didn't think he'd get a chance to he reborn again. Not after..."
"Neither did we."
"When did you find him?"
"3 hours ago, or so."
Filivandrel nodded, and he looked at the small coin pouch Geralt had given him, before tucking it into his pocket. "...Thank you, Witcher. Best of luck."
As soon as the Two groups part in opposite directions, Geralt is whirling on a startled Jaskier and investigating him. He holds his face, tilting it back and forth while Jaskier sputters confused noises at him, and then starts unbuttoning his doublet.
"Um, OKAY, not that I'm COMPLAINING, because you are ABSURDLY handsome, but can I get a PLEASE before you start stripping me? I'm gonna say YES, but it's only POLITE!"
"Need to check your abdomen." Geralt grunts. "Make sure there's no breaks or hernias." He's already gently palpating his torso, paying special attention to the bruised spots. He recognizes the shape of his own fist among the medley of colors, and clenches his jaw.
Jaskier takes his examination with grace, and Geralt eventually sighs, putting his fingers to his mouth and letting loose a high, piercing whistle. A moment later, Roach comes galloping from wherever she'd been grazing, and he directs Jaskier onto a boulder. He digs out a tin of salve and some bandages, and gently patches each of his cuts and bruises, finishing with a stripped band aid over his nose to make sure it healed straight.
"Am I all set then, doc?" Jaskier asked teasingly, with a raised eyebrow, and Geralt grunted, packing up his things. He hesitated, hands on the saddle, and looked back at Jaskier. "Fly away now, little bird." He said in a low gravel. "You got lucky today." Stay safe, for the love of the gods, stay safe. He climbed in the saddle, and made to ride away, but Jaskier snorted, jogging after him. "I think I'll follow you, actually. Just this is quite the story. I bet I'll get a bunch more."
"Find another Witcher, then."
"But I like you!" He beamed, and Geralt set his jaw, resolutely not looking at him.
"You'll only get hurt, following me. I'm just as much a monster as those I hunt."
Jaskier laughed then, a full bellied noise that rang of mirth. "You expect me to believe that after you JUST protected me, and then proceeded to fuss over me like a mother hen, and put salve on mere BRUISES? Monster my ass, you're a sweetheart, my dear!"
Months pass in this fashion, and Geralt finds himself settling into a rhythm with the bard. He'd tried a few more times to shake him off, even saying he knew another Witcher, Ormr of the Bears, who would be kind to him, and better for him.
That was one the few times Jaskier pinned him with The Glare. Set jaw, tightened lips, furrowed brows, and a general demeanor of irritation. "Geralt. YOU are my friend. I'm staying with you. So stop trying to make me leave you behind." He poked him in the chest firmly, scowling, then he wavered a little, and hurt crept stronger into his scent. "Unless it's that... you don't want me? If it's because I'm annoying, I'll try and be quieter?"
"No! No, you're..." He trails off, struggling to gather his words, and Jaskier tilts his head at him. "You're...Sunshine... I like you, I just... want you to be safe..." the bard blinked, then grinned. "Awwww, that's so sweet of you!"
Geralt felt his face heat up and he beat a hasty retreat as Jaskier giggled.
Samhain passed, and Jaskier noticed him getting antsier with every day. He finally walked in front of him at camp while Geralt was sharpening his swords, and gently poked his shoulder. "Y'know, I've heard rumors, my friend. That during the winter, most Witchers retreat to secret hide outs far in the wilderness. No humans allowed." He smiled softly. "Is that what this is about? Because I do understand if we must part for the season. I can winter at Oxenfurt."
Geralt shook his head. "No, I- you can- I want- fuck." He growled the last word, but Jaskier didn't rush him, just waited patiently. "The rule, there's... exceptions? You could come. With me. If you want." He looked up meekly. "...Please?"
Jaskier blinked, startled, and then beamed, throwing his arms around Geralt and hugging him tightly while the Witcher hissed at him to "Watch the sword!!" But made no other protest. "Oh darling, I would LOVE to!! Are you sure?"
He grunted, and nodded, and Jaskier squeezed him tightly, ALMOST enough to hurt, probably would have if he'd been human, and released him, bouncing around camp and rambling excitedly.
_-_-_-_-_-_
Vesemir frowned at the figures coming up the path. Kaer Morhen had become a refuge for the few Witchers remaining over the years. It had been repaired by its new inhabitants, though it would never be what it once was. Hell, they'd even put aside their differences with the Cats in the past couple of decades, and he was glad for it. He'd never seen Lambert as settled as he was with Aiden and Volthere together.
Dozens of Witchers filled his keep, which was still far less than the hundreds that used to roam the Continent, but this was all that was left.
It was Geralt, that much was clear. His white hair an identifying mark even when he could barely make him out. But who was that with him? It couldn't be a child, they were the same height as the Witcher. So a guest? Geralt wasn't one to bring guests.
"What are you squinting at?" Ivar's voice pulled him from his thoughts, and he grunted, gesturing at the figures on the path. "Geralt is... bringing back a guest."
Ivar hummed, eye following the old Wolf's hand line. He felt a quiet kinship with the White Wolf. After all, he too had gone through a second round of mutations, which gave him his ability to see visions. The difference is, he hadn't completed them. Geralt had, and it showed.
He sucked in a breath, and immediately closed his good eye to see better.
Holy Hells...
He hadn't seen a mortal with an aura that golden since- since-
"Ivar? What is it, my friend, what do you see?"
"....I will keep that to myself, for now, Vesemir." He said quietly, eye opening again as he blinked the vision away. "If I am correct, you will know soon. But, we aren't in any danger, I don't think." Vesemir studied him for a moment, before giving one sharp nod. "Very well."
The pair arrived as the sun began to set. The other person - man, which was more clear now - was bundled on Roach, shivering and quiet, even wrapped in Geralt's thick cloak. The witcher kept giving him worried looks.
"Geralt!" He looked up as Eskel trotted out of the keep, and immediately turned to reciprocate the bone crushing hug he knew was coming. "You're late, you bastard. You're the last one here, any later you'd have been stuck down there, a storm is coming in tonight."
"Eskel..." He sighed and allowed himself to melt into him for a brief moment, only pulling back briefly so they could exchange a kiss. "I know, I'm sorry. Can you take care of Roach, so I can get him warmed up?"
Jaskier was watching curiously, still shivering, and he perked up a little as he was acknowledged. "H-H-Hellll-lllooo!"
Eskel blinked. "Holy shit, yeah, go get the poor guy in front of a fire, go go go!" He ushered him out of the hug, taking Roach's reins as Geralt laughed, and started to help Jaskier out of the saddle.
Geralt bundled him into the castle, lute case thrown over his shoulder. He got him settled in a pile of furs next to the main hearth, and settled the case next to him. "Warm up, I'm going to go get our things." He was already shivering a little less, and smiled up at Geralt. "Th-Thank you, dear heart! I'll j-just stay here."
There was a cough behind them, and he turned to see several Witchers staring at him, baffled. Jaskier beamed, and waved. "Hello!"
"Geralt. Who is this?" Vesemir asked, though his eyes were wide as he stared at the human. Geralt gnawed the inside of his lip, and sighed. "I think... we should do this with everyone here?" It sounded like it pained him to draw more attention, which is why Vesemir knew it was important.
He raised an eyebrow, but nodded, and put his fingers to his mouth. Jaskier's eyebrows went up as well. If he thought Geralt's whistle was loud, this was next level. It echoed through the stone walls, and within about 2 minutes, several more Witchers had appeared in the Hall, Eskel included, carrying their bags.
Geralt sighed, and offered a hand to Jaskier, who was still very thoroughly buried in the furs. "Can you stand?"
"Mhm." He took his hand, and allowed himself to be drawn out of the pile, standing tall next to Geralt. He looked at the gathered Witchers and smiled at them.
"This... Is Jaskier. He's a human bard, who plays the lute." He heard several startled intakes of breath, and knew by now that they'd be looking at his intensely blue eyes. Jaskier cut in now, bowing at them as he stepped forward. "As Geralt said, I am Jaskier, the bard! I wish to use my music to help Witchers. Fix your reputations. You don't deserve the way you're treated, and I'm going to do everything I can to help." There was a bit of an edge to his voice, like he was daring them to argue with him.
There was stunned silence for a moment, and then Vesemir stepped forward again. "Be welcome to Kaer Morhen, Jaskier the bard." His voice sounded almost strained. "This keep once held only the School of the Wolf, but now it is home to every Witcher who still lives, from all seven schools. I am Vesemir, head of the Wolves." He gestured into the crowd, and several more stepped forward, greeting him in turn.
"Arnaghad, head of the Bears." A truly enormous man said in a voice so low Jaskier felt it rumble through his bones.
"Guxart, head of the Cats!" This one threw an arm over Vesemir's shoulders, and grinned as the old Wolf grumbled at him halfheartedly.
He was replaced by a lean, blonde man, silver piercings adorning his ears. "Stefan, head of the Cranes."
"Merten, head of the Manticores." He was tattooed, and smelled faintly of flowers as he brushed a kiss to the bard's knuckles reverently.
A man with a bit of ink smeared on his cheek was staring at him, almost awestruck. When he spoke, his voice was a little faint. "Keldar, head of the Griffins..."
Finally, a harsh looking figure with an eye white as fresh snow stepped forward. "I am Ivar Evil-Eyed, head of the Vipers. I see visions of the past, the present, the future, and worlds not our own. My eye let's me see through veils, and into other layers and versions and reality." He squeezed the bards shoulder. "Welcome home, Sunlit Bard."
Jaskier blinked but reached up to squeeze his hand where it rested on his shoulder, before the Viper could retreat, and his smile turned softer. "Thank you, good sir. I am glad to be here." Ivar nodded and pulled away, and then Geralt was ushering him up to bed. He was asleep within minutes of laying down.
When Geralt returned to the main hall, Vesemir met him, and they pressed their foreheads together. "Where? When?" He gasped out.
"Posada, in April. Didn't realize at first, took me a few hours."
"Fuck."
"Fuck." Geralt agreed, and wrapped his hand around Vesemir's forearm, where he was holding the back of his neck, and pressed into him more firmly.
_-_-_-_-_-_
The next few weeks passed, Jaskier insisting on helping around the keep where he could and playing the lute for them at dinner. He was in the library now, drifting through the poetry section with glee. It wasn't large, but it was still THERE.
He blinked as he noticed a shelf lined with only journals, and one large tome. He pulled out the tome, curious.
"Sunlit Bard - A Record of All Lives." He mumbled. Hadn't Ivar called him that? He opened it, curiosity piqued, and he read. He barely noticed as the sun went down, just shifting closer to the window so the moon reflected off the snow illuminated the pages.
"Bard."
He jolted and whipped his head over to Konrad. He was one of the youngest Witchers, apparently the last his school, the Cranes, ever made. He and Keldar handled the library, spending their time on the Path salvaging what books they could from the other destroyed keeps, and gathering knowledge from all over the Continent. He was eyeing him pensively. Eyeing the tome.
Jaskier blinked rapidly, hauling himself back to the present, out of the detached memories flitting through his mind. They felt familiar, like his, but... not.
"Oh, Konrad!" He looked around, then back at the tome. "...I forgot I was... HERE..."
Konrad nodded slowly, still eyeing him. Jaskier held up the tome. "This is why I was welcome, without a second question. Isn't it?"
"Yes."
Jaskier hummed, and pulled the spine-string into the page he was, closing it gently. "...I'm going to borrow this book. I need to finish reading it." He stood up on slightly wobbly legs, and Konrad cradled his elbows gently to stabilize him, then looked at the journals. "...When Keldar and I first started collecting our knowledge again..." He started, trailing his fingers over the old leather spines. "These were the first things we retrieved. When we had them all, we wrote that tome. Didn't think we'd ever add to it again." He inhaled slowly. "I... never got to meet the Sunlit Bard. Before." He patted it gently, and pushed it closer to Jaskier's chest. "May the knowledge of Our Bard find you well."
Jaskier walked back to his room in a daze, and lit the lamp from the hearth embers, throwing a log in and poking at it until it caught properly.
Then? He kept reading.
He kept getting these... impressions, like something he was supposed to remember, but couldn't quite grasp it. But he *knew,* in his bones, that this tome was a history of *him.* And every version of him he's ever been.
"Jask?"
He hummed, not looking up as Geralt entered.
"Jaskier."
He hummed again, still caught in the impressions, and Geralt put his hand over the top of the tome, pushing it down.
"Hey, wha- Oh, Geralt! Hello, what can I help you with?"
Geralt's frown deepened and he slowly took the book away, replacing it with a plate of cold foods. Cheese, bread, some dried meat, and a sliced apple. "Eat. Then sleep. Your story will still be there tomorrow, but it's the middle of the night."
Jaskier blinked, realizing his eyes were crusty, and then his stomach let out a fierce growl. Geralt scowled and nudged the plate again. He took his cue and began to eat, ravenous, only pausing to accept the offered water.
When he was done, he wiped his lips off with his wrist, and looked back at Geralt. "...Did you know?"
"Not at first. I... realized when you yelled at the elves for hitting me. We didn't think you were ever coming back."
"Because of what happened to Dandelion." It wasn't a question, but Geralt answered anyways. "Yes." He said it with a little nod, almost ashamed.
Jaskier nodded slowly in return, and closed the tome. He'd already read through it once, and was just skimming through it to try and find when the memory impressions took place. He'd start reading through the journals tomorrow. Apparently, every him kept several journals over the course of their lives, a dozen each at least, and they were crammed with songs, stories, and thoughts. Hell, he had a couple in storage at Oxenfurt he could bring back next winter. "...Where's Vesemir?"
"His rooms."
"Take me to him?"
He nodded again, and led the Bard to Vesemir's room. He could make out the sound of anxious pacing inside, and knocked quietly. The door opened a door later, and before anyone could say anything, Jaskier's arms were going around his neck, and he was hugging the old wolf tightly. Vesemir froze, before slowly, carefully, settling his hands on the bards back. When he spoke, it was barely above a whisper.
"...Luka didn't make it... did he?"
Vesemir's throat tightened and he shook his head. "No. Illyanna told me he was executed right after you were."
"I know. I knew. I remember, I... heard him screaming. Did you know heads keep hearing things for about half a minute after they've been detached? Keep seeing? I'd just... hoped I imagined it." The smell of Salt filled the air as his shoulders hitched, and Vesemir tightened his grip. "...I did not. I'm sorry."
"I'm sorry. For not coming back sooner. I should have." Vesemir shook his head and stepped back, patting his shoulder. "You're here now. That's more than any of us could have hoped for."
Geralt steered him back to his room, and his dreams were full of detached memories.
The next days pass in a haze. He spends most of his time reading through the literal centuries of journals, and while he feels guilty, knowing the Witchers are worried about him - with their constant nearby-hovering, and check-ins, and bringing him meals - he's so enveloped in the impressions of memories and feelings that he can barely drag himself out long enough to thank them.
One day, Ivar comes in, settling next to him on the couch with a quiet grunt. He waits patiently until Jaskier drags himself back to reality, and looks up from the journal. This one belonged to Lantana. "Ivar?"
The old Viper patted the sketchbook in his lap. "I have seen every Sunlit Bard, since the very first. The first I saw in person was Daffodil, but I've seen others in my visions. I thought you might like to know what faces you've worn." He opened the sketchbook to the first page, and held it out. "You're a mirror image of Buttercup, y'know. The First. I don't know if that means anything, or it's just a coincidence, but... Either way, your presence has brought hope to us dusty relics. Much like Buttercup did."
Jaskier took the sketchbook, and studied the drawings. Each life took up a two page spread, and had one full body drawing, and several profile angles, carefully shaded, and each labeled with the name that face bore and their years of birth and death. "...Thank you, Ivar."
Ivar nodded, patted his shoulder, and left.
Almost 3 weeks passed in this fashion, before his swirling thoughts finally settled as the day drew to a close.
He shut the last journal, the last entry Dandelion wrote, before grabbing his lute, and heading down to the grand hall. The quiet chatter ceased as his footsteps sounded, and he walked to his usual perch by the hearth, got comfortable with his lute, and looked up with a smile.
"Any requests?"