Chapter Text
The weeks following the meeting with the elder witchers, as the winter deepened along with the layer of snow now covering the ground of the keep, brought a mounting tension in the keep.
The other witchers are aware of an incoming change, and the mages, though Jaskier sees them rarely, grow more observant than they previously were. Jaskier isn’t quite sure what he should make of the latter group, especially as Eskel tells him more about the mutations they were forced to endure. Though he had known the basics of the process; witchers had always intrigued him, even prior to meeting Geralt, and he had scoured Oxenfurt’s libraries for all the information he could find about them. Hearing an account first hand, however, horrifies him, and he gives into the urge to hold Eskel through the tale. He wishes he could bring the same comfort to Geralt, but he knows the other witcher would never tell him this story, and from Eskel’s retelling, he understands why. He’ll just have to cuddle Geralt tightly without telling him why. He had known that Geralt was different from all the other witchers, especially after meeting all the witchers in the keep, but to hear that he had gone through an experience described as agony twice… Something so few children survived… Perhaps, the comfort he offers Eskel is comfort for the both of them, and Geralt in absentia.
So Jaskier has made his mind up about mages, or at least the mages attached to witcher schools: they look at them like a perpetual science experiment and there is something very sinister about their gaze. Jaskier vows, to himself, at least, that one day, he will do something to fix this tragedy, or at least make it better. He has no means of doing that right now, but he will find something eventually.
Now, however, most of his attention is geared towards the rest of the witchers. They have been eying him, and finally, one of them approaches him when Geralt and Eskel are busy training (and if that isn’t just a glorious sight…)
“You know, you’re the first outsider anyone one of us has ever brought back to the keep. And truly, I wouldn’t have ever expected it from Geralt.”
The witcher who has approached Jaskier is tall and broad, as witchers are wont to be, with short slightly wavy hair and a trim beard that thickens around his jaw and mouth but fades up into cheeks. His hair is almost black but the sun reveals it may be dark brown. He has sharp triangular brows that intensify his eyes and makes Jaskier feel scrutinised.
“I’m Aubry.”
He has a smooth confident voice.
“Jaskier.”
“The poet. I’ve heard.”
“Poet? I would have thought most people here would describe me as a bard before a poet.”
“Perhaps, but both of those descriptors are correct, are they not? I appreciate the songs, of course. They have made our lives better, and they’re certainly better than the Lullaby of Woe… But you hardly seem animated enough for me to use the title of bard right now. Something is about to happen, isn’t is?”
“Ah, and you hope to ferret it out of me now that I’m alone.” Though the attempt is transparent, it brings a smile to Jaskier’s face. The directness is something he admires in witchers, so refreshing after having experienced the obsequiousness and hidden meanings of court or the long winded arguing of academia, even though he is very at home in those contexts. He tries to not let his amusement show too much as he continues, “I’m sure it will all come to a head soon.”
His attempt to keep the amusement out of his tone was unsuccessful as a similar tone is obvious in the witcher’s response, “See, I was hoping to stop it before it broke out into a brawl.”
With that reminder of the stakes, however, the amusement falls off Jaskier’s face as he turns to face his interlocutor, “Given what the ‘something’ is, I’m afraid that likely won’t be possible.”
“So he did meet with the elders for something important then.” Aubry doesn’t turn to face Jaskier, but he once again mirrors his tone. His eyes are fixed on Geralt and his increasingly impressive somersaulting.
“Well, you did say something was about to change.”
“Yes. But now, I’m expecting it will be groundbreaking.”
“It probably will be.”
“You’re acting very mysterious, you know.”
“I have to counteract the idea of the silly bard somehow.”
They continue talking, though they never veer back into the dangerous territory of what’s about to happen. That evening proves Aubry correct, however, and it is certainly explosive.