Chapter Text
According to legend, every soul is destined to find its counterpart—a soulmate whose heart beats in perfect synchrony with their own. This bond defies the boundaries of time and space, often revealing itself through dreams. These dreams serve as quiet beacons, offering guidance and comfort in moments of fear or doubt.
Long before they ever meet, soulmates often visit each other in dreams, offering solace, sharing glimpses of the future, and preparing one another for the powerful connection that awaits in the waking world.
Julian Alfred Pankratz, a child of innocence, was born into a household filled with warmth and affection. His mother adored him beyond measure, embracing him fully despite his half-elf lineage—a quiet remnant of an ancient, forgotten affair. To her, Julian was not a mistake, but a miracle. His childhood, innocent and pure, was a time of untainted love and joy.
She let him sing while other boys were taught to wield swords or chase after wild boars. She saw no shame in his tears for frightened foxes.
For the first eight years of his life, Julian knew nothing but love. Then, like a sudden storm tearing through calm skies, it all vanished. His mother, the source of his love and comfort, died without warning, leaving Julian in a world of confusion and pain. And before her memory could settle into silence, his father brought home a new wife.
The Earl of Lettenhove now had a new family—more children, fully human. There was no room left for a half-elf son who didn't fit the image of nobility.
One cold morning, Julian was abruptly yanked from the comfort of sleep by a guard. He was forcefully dragged before his father and a woman dressed head to toe in black, his senses reeling from the suddenness of the awakening, as if the world had shifted in an instant.
The woman examined him clinically, circling like a hawk appraising its prey. She pried open his mouth, inspected his teeth, then stepped back.
"I'll give you five hundred orens for the boy," she stated flatly, her offer as abrupt as a lightning strike on a clear day.
Julian's horror froze him in place. The room felt as if the air had been sucked out of it.
"Deal," his father's voice replied—hollow, detached, final.
"Come along now, boy." The woman grabbed Julian's arms and dragged him.
From what was once his only home, Julian was torn away; his future now lay on a bleak and uncertain path.
Twenty years later, the woman was, in reality, a witch named Maja. In more practically terms, she was a hedge witch who, although never studied her magic at Aretuza, Maja considered herself to be better than any of those stuck-up prissy sorcerers.
Instead, Maja lived in a cottage near the village, where the poor folk practically worshipped her for the mere act of solving boils on their bottoms.
In the corner of the cottage, a cage with a lark sat. The bird didn't sing or tweet; it just looked out the window. Maja opened the cage, grabbing the bird, who did not fight.
When she cast the spell, the bird's body cracked as its feathers gave way to the human form of Julian. Who had long since started going by the name Jaskier.
"I want this place spotless by the time I get back," Maja ordered, throwing a broom at Jaskier.
"Yes, Mistress," Jaskier said in his voice, carefully not above a whisper. He watched as the witch left the cottage.
Beside a collar around his neck, Jaskier was mostly naked. Maja didn't see the need to clothe him when she kept him as a Lark most of the days. That was how Maja kept her pet under control.
When she needed him, for something, she turned Jaskier human; when not, he was a bird. Humming the song his mother used to sing to him, Jaskier swept the floors.
Outside the window, birds sang. "You're lucky you know that, right?" Jaskier said, "I wish I could fly away from here".
Even when he's a bird, every night Jaskier dreams. The same dream, he was in a field of flowers, so vivid he could practically smell them.
In this dream, Jaskier could see him. The man with white hair, his soulmate.
It's what Jaskier yearned for, a connection that transcended the boundaries of reality. He dared not ask the white-haired man's name, fearing that it might shatter the illusion.
That this dream was a cruelty masquerading as hope.
Instead, in his dreams, Jaskier let himself be held by the man with white hair. It was more than just nice to be held; it was a balm to his soul, a respite from the loneliness that plagued his waking hours. To feel the warmth of love and security, even if just in a dream, was a feeling he longed for in his reality.
Finally, on this night, Jaskier felt braver, and so he asked. "You're real, aren't you?"
The White hair man looked at Jaskier's face, not speaking. Moreover, he vanished.
"No," Jaskier whispered. "Please come back."
But once again, Jaskier was jolted awake. The cruel reality of his avian form, a stark contrast to the warmth and love he had just experienced, was a bitter pill to swallow.
Some fifteen years ago, Geralt of Rivia claimed the law of surprise after attending a banquet. Wanting to make the continent a better place
And so he reunited all Witchers under one Banner, overthrowing the king of Kaedwen. Together, they took over the north.
At some point, Geralt came to be known as the Warlord of the North. He thought the name to be a bit silly, but it was better than the latter.
Geralt hated the thought of being called King Geralt of Rivia.
Within the majestic halls of Kaer Morhen, where stone walls whispered tales of old, Geralt stood intently before an intricately detailed map of the continent. In his calloused hands, he cradled a drawing of a young man—an image that seemed to pulse with life. This young man had tousled brown hair that framed his face, and his captivating brown eyes shone with a warmth that Geralt had never encountered before.
He was not just a figure on a piece of paper; he was Geralt's soulmate, the embodiment of his most cherished dreams. Each night, Geralt found himself ensnared in visions of this young man, experiencing feelings so profound that he lost track of time—he couldn't even recall how long he had been captivated by these dreams that felt more like a call from destiny than mere fantasies.
"I saw him again," Geralt said to Vesemir, who had just walked into the room.
"The soulmate dream again, wolf," The old witcher said.
Geralt looked down at the map. "I know he has to be out there somewhere," Geralt's voice was forced. "Are you sure there hasn't been any word on the poster.
"We've sent the posters, with the drawing from your dream to every corner until the end of the world," Vesmier explained. "No one has seen that boy."
"Damit," Geralt muttered. He turned to face the window. The mountain stood strong in his gaze. "He has to be out there somewhere."
"What if he doesn't wish to be found?" Vesemir suggested.
"In the dreams, he's always scared; there are some nights when he doesn't wish to speak but only to be held. Wherever he is, I don't think he's happy, or even safe," Geralt explained, his voice heavy with concern. "I just want him to be safe."
Jaskier's favourite day was market day. Suppose you could call any day of his life a good day. This is because Market Day was the longest time he got to be human.
Dressed in rags, a constant reminder of his outcast status, Jaskier obediently followed Maja's orders, yearning for the day he could be free.
"Don't even think about dropping anything," Maja's harsh voice cut through the air as she thrust silk into Jaskier's arms, a cruel reminder of his servitude.
The market was alive with the usually filth and colour of a hot summer morning. Vendors cried out their wares. Livestock bleated and clucked.
Children darted between legs, stealing fruit.
"Keep up, boy," Maja hissed without looking back.
Jaskier followed, the iron collar chafing at his neck; he tried to flinch when people looked at him too long.
Pretty boy
Pretty half-elf.
Pretty nothing.
That's when he heard them.
"You think will find him?" A man with scars across his face. To swords on his back, a Witcher. See, Jaskier didn't know a lot about the world, but he did know what a witcher was.
"Who am I to say, this soulmate stuff is all bullshit?" The other witcher spoke. Jaskier, who had heard whispers about soulmates but never fully understood the concept, was intrigued. He wanted to get closer to eavesdrop, but he knew he would get in trouble if Maja saw him leaving.
"I don't think that's what your Cat said last night, lamb." The witcher with scars said with a mocking tone.
"Shut up, Aiden, different," Lamb said as the two walked away.
Once the witchers were out of sight, Jaskier's eyes were drawn to a mysterious poster on the message board, a central hub for village communication. It depicted a figure that bore a striking resemblance to him. For a moment, Jaskier forgot his place and reached out to touch the poster, intrigued by its enigmatic message.
He was drawn to a mysterious poster that seemed to depict him. Slowly, Jaskier moved closer, momentarily forgetting his place, and reached out to touch the poster.
DO YOU KNOW THIS MAN?
Jaskier read.
CONTACT GERALT OF RIVIA, WARLORD OF THE NORTH.