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“Djinn!  I have freed thee!  And as of this day, I am your lord!”

The clear voice rings out through the beautifully lush forest.  It’s a lovely summer day; bright sunshine and vibrant green leaves rustled by a light breeze surround the young man standing by the lake.  Well, the body of water more closely resembles- and smells like- a swamp, but the chestnut-haired man will work with what he has.

At the young man’s words, the breeze picks up and the leaves rustle a little louder.  There is an air of anticipation in the stillness of all other sounds.  The young man takes a breath and wishes.

*

Jaskier is in Posada when he first feels that maybe he’ll never be good enough.  He’s singing a song he composed for the village and then he’s being pelted with bread.  And maybe some other things.  But the bread looks edible, so he’ll just focus on that. 

He puts away his lute and then stuffs as much bread as he can into his pants.  He takes it all to the back-corner table, where he unloads some stale bits from his trousers and munches on it broodily.  The bard is at a loss.

Why doesn’t anyone like his songs?

He puts his heart into every single one that he sings.  Doubly so for the ones he actually writes himself.  And yet, they hate them.  He just can’t seem to reach the hearts of his audience with his music.

It makes him sad to realize this and he wonders what he can change to make them love him.  He munches on it some more, eyes falling shut as he considers the problem.

Maybe it’s not him?

His eyes pop open.  Maybe it’s not him!  Maybe, just maybe, the problem is the audience.  Perhaps, perchance, they can’t open their hearts, because they don’t know how.  Somewhere along the way, the people of the Continent have shut their hearts to music; to true, from the heart, music.

Jaskier decides, then and there, that he will not rest until he finds a way for his music to reach their hearts.  He is going to fix the Continent and its music problem.

Satisfied, he crunches on the last of his bread and thinks about the best way to solve the issue.

*

Which has led him to here, before a lake, open amphora clasped in hand.  Other than the wind picking up, nothing happens.

That was not what he was expecting from his declaration.  Frowning, he looks at the vessel in his hands and brings it closer for inspection.  He turns it upside down and shakes.  Nothing comes out.  There is a very giant lack of a Something going on.

“Bit of an anticlimax,” he frowns perplexedly.

The trees sigh.

“Or is it?!”  He steps closer to the edge of the lake.  “Djinn!  For my first wish, I want a way to reach the hearts of the people of the Continent!  Preferably with music, but if you think there’s a better way, I’m willing to consider it.”

The forest stills.  Jaskier frowns again, shakes the amphora one more time before shrugging and tossing it aside, where it shatters against a rock.

“Hmm, must have been a dud.”  He turns and makes his way back through the forest, not noticing the small scratch on his wrist from a bramble.

*

It takes Jaskier three weeks to realize that maybe something odd is going on and it might have something to do the wish he made in the forest.  He’s just been invited to the local magistrate’s manor for a private performance for the man and his family.  Apparently, he’d received a raving review from the last town’s- rather young and handsome- alderman.

This has never happened to Jaskier before.  Charming his way into someone’s bed, yes.  An invite from near minor nobility?  Never.  First time.  Jaskier’s official bard-invite-cherry has been popped.  He’s so excited he can barely contain the squee he wants to let out.  He gives the messenger his most ‘gracious noble’ look and replies that he would be honored to attend to the magistrate and his family.

This is not when he realizes that something is odd.  Of course, that alderman had been very, ah, satisfied with Jaskier.  Anyone would be honored to have been serenaded by a song just for them written by a famous-in-the-making bard.

And that’s when it hits him.

The bird flies right into his cheek and nearly knocks him over.  He didn’t know birds could hit so hard.  He rubs his jaw, watching as the bird rights itself on the ground and then takes off.

Where was he?

Oh, right.  His impending performance for the magistrate.  He’ll have to craft a song just for him.

*

He realizes something is odd when the magistrate crowds him against the wall outside the main hall and whispers something filthy into his ear.

The situation itself isn’t odd, or even unfamiliar, but the magistrate has given all the appearance of a doting husband and father the entire evening.  His wife has appeared to reciprocate the affection. And while Jaskier has had his indiscretions with those of a…. hitched persuasion, he doesn’t make it a habit to get in between what appears to be real love.  Jaskier isn’t that kind of guy.  Bedding a bored housewife in a crappy marriage is one thing.  Interfering in a relationship where both people have a real regard for one another is something else.

Jaskier only wants to bring happiness to his partners, whether that’s a lonely woman in a loveless marriage or an apprentice blacksmith discovering himself for the first time.  Jaskier makes it a point to prioritize their pleasure.  He rather prides himself in this.

He’s never had a maybe-one-step-removed-from-nobility man, that gave all the appearance of a happily married man, squeeze his arse before.  Gracefully, he maneuvers around the magistrate and hands him over to the first servant he comes across, explaining that the man had too much to drink and lost his way.

The servant seems suspicious of the magistrate losing his way in a house with only five rooms, but Jaskier couldn’t be arsed to make up something more plausible.  He dumps the man in the servant’s arms and makes his way back to the closet with a bed he was given to stay in for the night.  He must admit that it’s a nice change from a thin pallet on a hard floor with three other men, at least one of which farts in his sleep every fifteen to twenty minutes.

He bounces twice on the bed, curls up around his lute case, and forgets all about the incident.

Or, well, at least he means to.

The thing is…it keeps happening.  He keeps getting invited into nobles’ homes.  And at least one person tells them the love his music at the end of the night.  And then asks him to drop his trousers.  Or do any other number of lewd things.

And, normally, Jaskier would be ecstatic.  He’s a nineteen-years-old bard and a healthy, red-blooded Redanian to boot.  He likes sex, is what he’s saying.  He even likes it a lot.  But even he finds it a bit much when the Duchess of Murivel grinds the heel of her slipper onto the Count of Montecalvo’s foot, elbowing sharply to get in front of him.  She smiles seductively at Jaskier.  The bard swallows and reminds himself to never again agree to play for birthday parties where the subject of said party is a septuagenarian or above.

A wrinkly hand reaches to take his arm.

Jaskier whimpers quietly to himself.

The woman’s mouth widens to show gaps in her teeth.

Oh gods, Jaskier thinks.  What has he done?

*

What he has done, apparently, is make a wish to reach people’s hearts and then left it entirely up to interpretation on as to how by a malicious entity.

Or so says the mage at the court of King Ervyll of Verden.  “This is why djinns are banned,” she chastises him.

He looks up at her.  “Is there nothing you can do?”

She shakes her head.  “This requires magic much more powerful than mine.”

“What if I ask the djinn to undo it?  I only used one wish.”

“Sorry, one of the reasons that djinns are banned is because there is no undoing a wish once made by the one who granted it.”  Jaskier gives her what he hopes is a ‘please explain’ face.  It seems to work, as she continues.  “The djinn that granted your wish can’t take it back.  The only way to undo a wish once granted is to find another djinn to wish it undone; nearly impossible due to their rarity in the first place, or to find a mage powerful enough to break through it.  Slightly more doable, but also more expensive.”

Jaskier stares at the wall opposite him.  “So, either I learn to live with being propositioned all the time or I lose my way to connect with my audience?”

The mage shrugs.  “I guess that’s one way to look at it.  I will give you a warning, though.”

Jaskier arches his eyebrow at her.  “Oh?”

“The magic surrounding the wish is strengthening.  I believe it’s getting stronger.”

“And?  What does that mean?”

The woman bites her lip before speaking.  “It’s just propositioning for now, but I think they’ll get more…insistent, as times goes on.”

“Insistent?”

“I think you’ll slowly see an increase in number and insistence to pursue you as time goes on.”

It takes a moment for Jaskier to process this.  “Oh.”

The mage nods sadly.  “I’m sorry.”

“Oh!”

She lays a hand on top of his.  “I can make something to try and slow the effects.”

“Oh-ho-ho-ho, this is brilliant!”

She freezes.  “What?”

“I’m going to be drowning in sex!”

“I-um-what?”  She stutters.

The bard stands from his seat and throws his hands in the air.  “And music!”

The mage is confused.  “So, you don’t want a recommendation for a sorceress to take care of your little…djinn problem?”

Jaskier reaches down and takes her hands in his own.  “Dear lady, you have been of great help.  Now that I understand better what the djinn has gifted me with, I shall go forth!  Fearless! And win over the hearts of both the peasantry and nobility alike.”  He pauses in thought for a moment.  “But probably the nobility first.”  He has rather expensive tastes after all.

He releases her hands, gives her his most charming smile (the one he usually reserves for fair maidens in need of some extra coaxing), and leaves the mage’s room, lute case slung over his shoulder.

“…he could have at least left me a tip,” the mage frowns before turning back to her potions.

*

It is less than two months later that the propositions start getting out of control and he realizes the wish may not be a boon after all.  He’s been invited to play for Princess Pavetta’s betrothal feast in Cintra with the full backing of Queen Calanthe’s court minstrels.  He’s ecstatic.  Over the moon.  Melitele has blessed him with her divine favor, finally.

He is, however, less ecstatic at the most recent turn the wish has taken.

Never before has he been cornered in a crowded room by an earl-funnily, enough, also named ‘Erle’- and told to disrobe.  But that is exactly what happens.

He’s practicing his scales when a soft, but firm hand wraps around his forearm and pushes him up against the side of the wall-walk.

“Drop your trousers!”

“What?!”  Jaskier does not quack.

The shorter man looks pointedly down at Jaskier’s crotch and then reaches around him to palm his backside.  “I want a proper look at what I’m getting!”

“Um,” Jaskier argues.

Plump hands slide up to his waist.  “Ah, I’ll help you!  Now hurry!”

Instinctively, Jaskier shoves his hands in front of himself and draws one leg up defensively.  “My lord, we’re in public!” 

Earl Erle continues to reach for the waistband of Jaskier’s trousers.  “That’s not a problem for me.”

“It’s a problem for me!”  Jaskier draws his leg a little higher.  Suddenly, a rather large hand appears on the earl’s shoulder.

The large hand is attached to one of the most handsome men Jaskier has ever seen.

“Forgive me, my lord,” comes the deep voice.  Jaskier is entranced.  The man has white hair!  And gold eyes!  This man is practically a still-life of those books his older sister Analisa liked to read about chiseled men and flowing honey.  He always wondered why the men, in particular, seemed so desperate to taste the honey.  He was pretty neutral on the flavor of honey himself.  Maybe it was a special honey that was mentioned in an earlier book that drove these men so hard to seek it out?

At any rate, back to the earl and the handsome man that was still speaking.  “Unfortunately, this man has a rather pimply arse.”  The white-haired man shudders.  “It’s hideous.”  Jaskier frowns at him.  That’s just a blatant lie! His arse is amazing.  He walks a lot for that arse.  Not on purpose, but still.  He put in the work, so he gets the credit.  And maybe some credit goes to his parents for producing him, but he doesn’t like talk about or to them these days, so it’s not like they’ll find out if he doesn’t credit them for something.  He hopes.

The earl looks somewhat suspicious.  Secretly, Jaskier is proud of him for not just taking this strange man’s word and is sticking up for him.  “And how would you know, witcher?”

The-the witcher! - gives the shorter, plumper man a knowing look.  “He fooled me, too.”  The witcher says mournfully.  “And I didn’t have anyone to warn me.”  He squeezes the earl’s shoulder.  “Consider this one man looking out for another.”

Erle nods gratefully to him.  “Thank you, sir!”  He levels Jaskier with a sharp look.  “And you!”  Jaskier squeaks at the finger shoved into his face.  “I can recommend to you my wife’s herbalist.  She swears by his treatments.”  His gaze lingers on Jaskier as he gives a final nod to the witcher and walks away.

Jaskier watches him warily until a silver flash catches his eye and he turns his gaze to his erstwhile hero.  What the man said catches up to him.  “Who the fuck are you?”

“Geralt of Rivia,” the man says from behind his mug.

“Well, ‘Geralt of Rivia,’ you just ruined my courtly reputation!”

“What.”

Jaskier wrings his hands.  “How will I ever lure fair maidens into bed if they think my arse is pimply?”

*

Geralt is not ecstatic at being invited to the betrothal feast of Princess Pavetta of Cintra.  In fact, Geralt had been rather against the idea of him attending said feast.  Except his old friend, Mousesack, had asked him to come, citing that there may be work for him there.

“A potential beast, of some sort,” the messenger had relayed to him.  “Might try to ruin the festivities,” they said, as if they could conceive of no greater horror than ruined festivities.

“Hm,” Geralt had said.

The messenger brightened.  “Excellent.  I’ll tell Druid Mousesack that you’ll be in attendance.”  He rode off into the mid-afternoon sun before Geralt could say anything else.

“Fuck.”  He hates parties.

Which is how he now finds himself leaning up against a wall partition dressed like a sad silk-trader, because Mousesack said he had to, and drinking the Cintran ale from a rather shiny mug.

A bard is being groped to his right.  He takes a drink from his shiny mug and wonders if he can ignore it.  He’s not here to get involved in human affairs.  The bard’s voice registers a pitch Geralt has never heard from a man before as the short, plump man starts trying to disrobe the bard in front of the Great Lady Melitele and everyone in the room with them.

Fuck. Geralt swishes the ale around in his mouth before swallowing it, regretting every decision he ever made to get himself here before he peels himself away from the wall and sets his hand on the lord’s shoulder.

While he doesn’t necessarily expect gratitude for helping the young man, he doesn’t expect outright umbrage from him either.  He’s about to reply to the bards’ accusations when there’s a loud ‘thud’ from the back of the room.

The young bard gets distracted from his high dudgeon when the Queen of Cintra walks through the hall doors covered in blood.  Quickly, he goes to the dais with the other musicians leaving Geralt behind without even hearing the witcher’s clever and cutting retort.

(It was “what?”)

The queen announces her excuses for her delay and bids the bard to sing.  After cutting him off and demanding a jig, she goes to her daughter.  Geralt goes to find Mousesack.  Maybe he’ll let him leave early since he saved the bard.

He finds the druid only a few paces away from the musician’s dais.  The man must have been on his way to him.  “Can I leave yet?”

Mousesack fixes him with an unamused look.  “The monster may yet still attack.  You’ll have to stay at least until Pavetta’s betrothed is chosen.”

Geralt is starting to have his suspicions as to why he was hired for tonight.  “I’m not for hire as a bodyguard,” he sneers.

“And yet, here you are,” Mousesack smirks.

Mousesack should change his name to ‘Mouseshit’.  Geralt hates him so much right now.  He should leave.  But, well, they did offer a lot of money.  A lot.  So, Geralt will stay, but Mousesack is now on his dogshit list for the foreseeable future.

He also has a ‘troll-shit’ list for those who really piss him off.  Mousesack is lucky.

The music stops for a time and Geralt feels a presence at his shoulder.  He can see Mousesack looking behind him curiously, so he turns around, and there is the bard.  Who is dressed in some ridiculous piece of shiny fabric that really brings out his eyes.  His long fingers are playing with the strap of his lute.

“Er, I wanted to say, ‘thank you.’”  The bard fidgets some more.  “So…thank you.”

Geralt raises an eyebrow at him.  “You’re welcome.”  He hears Mousesack snort behind him and elbows the old man in his side.  The druid grunts and rubs the spot Geralt had dug into.

The bard is still staring at him.  “Was there something else?”

“Oh! Well, um…the earl mentioned you’re a witcher?”  Geralt nods.  “Oh, um, I think I’ve heard of you?  White hair, gold eyes, big ol’ loner,” Mousesack’s snort is more pronounced this time.  “You’re the Butcher of Blaviken!”  The bard announces happily.

At once, any good will Geralt had towards the bard evaporates.  Mousesack wraps a hand around his elbow, preventing him from moving.  Anything else is prevented from happening when Calanthe calls for the bard.  “Take a seat by my side while I change.”  The looks she sends is both intimidating and suggestive.

Both Geralt and Mousesack turn to look at the bard.  The man looks just as perplexed as Geralt feels, but hurries after the queen.  He exchanges another look with Mousesack before shrugging off his hand and making his way to a tray with more shiny mugs filled with ale.  He has the feeling he’s going to need a lot of ale to get through this night.

*

Luckily, Queen Calanthe stays on her side of the partition as she bathes and dresses for the banquet.  Jaskier is forever grateful for small favors.  And while Calanthe is a rather striking woman, he has no interest in having an unfortunate ‘accident,’ courtesy of Eist Tuirseach, before the night is through.

She speaks to him about his music and hints at a patronage.  She also hints at some ‘perks’ to go along with it that Jaskier doesn’t think is normally included, should he remain at her court.  He excuses himself after she makes her offer and tells him to think about it, strongly hinting that she would be displeased with anything that isn’t a ‘yes’.  He is already planning on how he was going to slip out in the early hours of the morning without being caught.

He goes back to the hall.  People are starting to settle in to eat.  He gathers the court minstrels up and soon they are back to playing jigs, as the queen had requested.

He notices the white-haired man among the crowd again, leaning up against a different wall from where he’d first been when Jaskier had met him.  The man is calmly taking in his surroundings, listening to the conversation taking place nearby.  It’s just as the queen is stepping back into the hall, gown billowing around her, that a fight breaks out.

Two men are in each other’s face, arguing about manticores, and the witcher is standing nearby, looking amused.  The men are getting louder and the rest of the hall is quieting down to listen in.  He sees a lady whisper to Calanthe before she yells.  “Enough!”

Instantly, the hall is silent.

“We have a renowned guest here tonight.”  She makes her way down the steps from the high table.  “Perhaps he can declare which esteemed lord is telling the truth.”  She eyes Geralt speculatively.

“Neither,” he hears him say.

The two men stare at him angrily.  “Are you calling me a liar,” asks the bigger one.

“Ah,” agrees the second man.  “The Butcher of Blaviken bleats utter nonsense.”

Oh no.  If this keeps up, the party will devolve into a fistfight and if that happens Jaskier can kiss goodbye to his triumphant performance.  Luckily, Geralt is facing him.  Ever so slightly, Jaskier shakes his head at him.

Geralt sees him.  He can tell because the man’s face does something weird, like he’s both disgusted and resigned at the same time, before he answers the men again.  “Perhaps the lords encountered rare subspecies of manticore,” he offers, diplomatically.  Jaskier sighs in relief before beaming at the witcher.

The men and crowd in general seem to agree with his assessment and Calanthe laughs.  “Perhaps our esteemed guest would like to entertain us with how he slayed the Elves at the Edge of the World?”  She seems rather keen on hearing the story.  Jaskier is, as well.  He feels like he could make song of it, if he could just get some good details, right from the source.

The crowd cheers before Geralt’s voice cuts right through them.  “There was no slaying,” he declares.  “I had my arse kicked by a ragged band of Elves.”  The crowd grumbles.  “I was about to have my throat cut when Filavandrel let me go.”  The crowd jeers and Geralt sips from his mug again, ignoring them.

Jaskier decides then and there that Geralt is shit at telling stories.  He could help him with that.

More voices join in to heckle the witcher before he speaks again.  “At least when Filavandrel’s blade kissed my throat I didn’t shit myself.”

Internally, Jaskier groans.  This man is the worst.  He needs professional help.

“Which is all I can hope for you, good lords.”  And he’s not done!  Does the man never stop talking?  “At your final breath, a shitless death.”  He raises his mug in toast.  “But I doubt it,” he mutters loudly before taking a drink.

The room bursts into laughter.

What?  Jaskier looks around, confused.  What just happened here?

Eist speaks up next, detailing his thoughts on how he thought the encounter would have gone if it had been Calanthe there instead of Geralt.

She seems pleased with the compliment but looks at Geralt consideringly.  “Any man willing to paint himself in the shadow of his failures will make for far more interesting conversation this night.”  She turns back to the table.  “Come witcher, take a seat by my side while we eat.”

And Jaskier is not jealous.  Nope, not at all.  Calanthe had only moments ago been propositioning him into a court bard position and now it was the witcher that got to sit at her side.  Jaskier isn’t jealous at all.  He is here to do a job, not sit around, stuff his face, and look stupidly handsome while doing it. 

And also, frankly, Calanthe is terrifying.

Jaskier goes back to playing jigs and some time after they’ve all eaten their fill and he’s just started a rousing rendition of ‘Fishmonger’s Daughter’ all hell breaks loose.

This time, he can say assuredly, it was. Not. His. Fault.

After it’s all over, he does sneak out with the witcher, though.  Just in case.

*

The bard follows Geralt to his room at the inn.  Geralt is not sure how the bard manages to do this as Geralt had no intention of leading him there.  But somehow, the man is there, ordering Geralt a bath and prattling on about words to rhyme with ‘trick’.  Geralt has a suggestion but feels that it may not go with the atmosphere the bard is trying to evoke with this particular song.

It isn’t until after the bard has dumped a bucket of cold water over his head and admonished him for grunting that Geralt realizes he’s been asked a question.  “What?”  Geralt feels like he says that to the bard a lot.

Apparently, the bard feels the same.  He launches into a diatribe about Geralt not listening to him- which to be fair, Geralt hasn’t been- and ends with him repeating his question.

“I’m not for hire as a bodyguard.”

“Isn’t that why you were at the feast tonight?”  The bard blinks at him innocently before sorting through the bottles on the shelf behind him.

Geralt wants to argue, but the bard is right, he had been hired by Mousesack as a bodyguard of sorts.  Even if it had been underhandedly.  He grunts instead.

“Mm, that’s what I thought.”  Geralt splashes water over his face and contemplates drowning himself now rather than later.  He can tell the bard is going to get on his nerves and it would probably save him a great deal of pain.

“Every bard, poet, and two-penny lyrist will be at this competition,” the bard continues.  The witcher endeavors to actually pay attention this time.  “It’s a good deal.  You protect me from amorous lords and ladies- unless I give the ‘okay’- and I rehabilitate your reputation.  Plus, if I win, I’ll reimburse you from my winnings.”

“I only deal in hard coin.”

The bard turns to him again, a somber expression on his face.  “I can also teach you how to tell stories better.”

Geralt stares at him for a moment.  “Why do you need a bodyguard anyway?”

The man lights up.  “Ah!  I’m glad you asked!”  He pauses for effect.  It is ineffective on Geralt.  The bard does not seem to notice this.  “It was a wish,” he says dramatically.  Geralt isn’t sure the bard can do anything not-dramatically.

This revelation does cause Geralt to freeze.  “What?!”  How many different ways can a person say one word?  Geralt is sure to have the answer.

“I found a djinn, made a wish to reach the hearts of my audience, and now I’ve worked my way into the hearts of many a noble.”  He smirks at that in a way that implies he does not mean just their hearts.  “However, it backfired a bit, maybe.”  He leans against the counter, the picture of graceful lament.  “My audience has come to love me a little too much.”  He looks are Geralt, his eyes shining with a suspicious wetness.

“So?”  The witcher inquires cautiously.

“And so, I fear that with so many nobles attending this gathering, I will run into ones that I had to regretfully let down, as well as ones I did not, and that there may be a…bit of hard feelings situation running about.”  To his credit, the bard does look regretful.

The witcher stares at him.  “How many of these lords want to fuck you?”  He has a feeling he is not going to like the answer.

“Hard to say,” the bard replies.  “One stops keeping count after a while.”  Geralt was right.  He does not like that answer at all.  The younger man crouches down at the foot of the tub, arms crossed along the rim.

“I’m not for hire as a bodyguard,” he reiterates, scowling.

Perplexingly, this makes the bard smile.  “Oh yeah!  That face!  Ah, scarrry face.”  He stands and waves a hand at Geralt.  “No lord in his right mind will come close if you’re standing next to me with a puss like that.”

“No.”

“Oh, come on!  It’s two months of steady work and at the end of it,” he grabs something from a jar and turns.  “You will have borne witness to Jaskier’s most triumphant performance!”  He splashes whatever he grabbed into the tub.  It smells alright so Geralt doesn’t acknowledge it.

Also, he now knows the bard’s name.  This is getting serious.  The bard hunches back down over the tub, leaning his chin on folded arms.  His eyes are very blue, Geralt notices; then hates himself.

He rubs some water over his arm.  “Not doing it.”

“I’ll pay for food and lodging.”

Well then.  “Fine.”  He washes his other arm. “Still not a bodyguard,” he grumbles, wanting to have the last word.

The blue eyes smile at him.  Fuck.  “And yet, here we are.”

Damn bard can’t even let him have that.  He looks away.  Where are his clothes?

*

The thing is, it’s not everyone.  Jaskier has had perfectly normal interactions with old ladies, other bards, blacksmiths; all kinds, really.

He honestly doesn’t know what sets the curs-wish- off.  He’s grateful to the djinn.  Really, he is.  He’s more famous than he ever thought he’d be, back in the little inn at Posada.  People are coming to him left and right to hear him perform.

It’s just, now it’s not just the nobility that’s expecting extras.  And Jaskier wouldn’t mind, normally, but he’s currently got a sheep herder on one arm and his son on the other, tugging in opposite directions.  He really hopes Geralt comes in from feeding Roach soon.

Luckily, Geralt does and, after pulling the sheep herder and his son off of Jaskier, he herds the bard to their room.  “We need to do something about this,” he says.

Jaskier smooths down his doublet.  “Do something about what?”

“Your wish.  It’s getting stronger.”

“That just means more people love me!”  Jaskier is still trying to be optimistic about his situation.  How can someone wanting him in their bed be a bad thing?

Geralt levels him with a look.  “At this rate, you’re not going to be able to make it to the competition.”

“Oh?”  Jaskier returns his look.  Unfortunately, he does not have Geralt’s chiseled jaw line, so the effect is somewhat dulled.

“You’ll be chained to someone’s bed, unable to leave.”

“That’s why I hired you.”  There’s an awkward silence before Jaskier stumblingly adds.  “To protect me.  From being chained to someone else’s bed.  Not to do the, uh, chaining.”  Jaskier gives him his most charming grin.  “Not that I wouldn’t mind, of course.”  He winks.  Sort of.  He never really got the whole ‘one eye open, one eye closed simultaneously’ thing down very well.

Geralt frowns at him, which isn’t surprising because Geralt is almost always frowning.  He’s going to get wrinkles.  “I can’t take on a hundred men at once while trying to protect you, Jaskier.”  Apparently, he is still refusing to acknowledge when Jaskier flirts with him. Which is good, because it means Geralt is still immune to the effects of the cur-wish.

“And women,” Jaskier corrects.  There are plenty of strong women out there.  And strong men that like to dress like women.  And women that dress like men.  And…well, there are a lot of people out there that are capable of overpowering Jaskier, is really where this all leads.

Hence, the witcher.

But now the witcher is saying they might be too much for him as well.

“And women,” the witcher agrees.  “So, we’re going to find a mage powerful enough to remove the wish.”

“But what about the bard competition?”  Jaskier really wants to go.  He’s sure he can beat Valdo this time.  He’s gotten so much real-life experience out of this entire djinn-wish adventure.  It will make for a great ballad.

Or he’ll just write an ode to Geralt’s magnificent arse.  It deserves the recognition.

“Wish cure first, then we’ll go to Ard Carraigh for your competition.”

They’re near Rinde where they hear of a powerful sorceress with an entire town under her spell.  The elf healer that is telling them about this sorceress seems rather bemused as he is tasked with holding back the captain of the patrol they’ve wandered through, so that the man does not follow them.  Well, follow Jaskier.  The wish really is gaining momentum.

Geralt lets Jaskier ride Roach in the name of expedience and getting as far away from the man that had tried to jump the bard as possible.  And, also, Jaskier may have twisted his ankle just a teeny, tiny bit trying to get away from the man’s hold.  It’s nothing, really.  Except it hurts quite a bit when he tries to take a step actually, and no Geralt, he’s not faking, it really does hurt.  You fake a bad knee injury one time because you’re too hungover to walk and it’s just held against you.  Constantly.  Geralt is clearly holding a grudge even though he says he’s not.

They reach the manor house of the mayor that the sorceress has holed up in just after night falls.  A man greets them and asks for a fee.  Geralt knocks the man out with his coin pouch after the man tries to grab Jaskier’s leg ‘for payment’.  Jaskier is very impressed by this.  And a little turned on.

Geralt helps him down from Roach’s back and after a few stumbling steps, elects to just swing Jaskier over his shoulder and carry him.  It puts his face level with the magnificent arse, so he doesn’t complain.

They enter the house and arrive in a kitchen.  Geralt sets him down gently on the table, there’s a shuffle off to the side and they both turn to look.  There is a very naked, heavy set man with a jug in one hand, staring at Jaskier.

“Whoa,” Geralt says.

“Welcome.  To my home,” says the man.  His gaze does not leave Jaskier’s face.  Jaskier’s gaze doesn’t leave the man’s prick.  It’s just…right there.  Looking at him.  Watching him.

“You’re the mayor of Rinde?”  Geralt asks, skeptically.  “Not exactly what I was expecting.”

Jaskier leans to one side then the other, testing his theory.  He thinks it’s following him.  He pokes Geralt’s chest.  “Geralt,” he chokes out.  “I think it’s following me.”

Geralt ignores him.  “Sorry,” he apologizes to the mayor.  “He’s in a bad way.”  Jaskier thinks he should be offended by this, but he’s too busy being terrorized by the appendage attached to the mayor’s lower half.  “Is there a mage that lives here?”

The mayor’s focus shifts from Jaskier’s face to right behind him.  “Ah!”  The mayor exclaims.  “The apple juice!”  Jaskier feels a little relieved that the man hadn’t shifted his focus to his arse.  He also feels a little put out that whatever spell this man is under trumps the djinn’s magic and his own personal assets.  “She wants some.  And she always gets what she wants.”

“I don’t understand.”  Geralt shakes Jaskier’s shoulder, breaking his gaze from the mayor’s little bald-pate friar.  “Does he want me to get him the apple juice,” he asks Jaskier.

Jaskier shrugs.  He hadn’t been listening to the conversation between Geralt and the mayor.  He’d been distracted by the mayor’s wee kicky-wicky winking at him.

The mayor has apparently decided that he’s had enough excitement for the day and sits down in a nearby chair.  He’s asleep almost immediately.  Jaskier is rather thankful that he no longer has to hold a staring contest with the man’s maypole.  He was beginning to think he would lose.

*

Geralt reaches behind Jaskier and picks up the apple juice.  When he looks up again, the mayor is asleep in a chair.  “Oh.  Good.”  He helps Jaskier up and lets the bard lean on him.  They make their way to a door where mist is seeping out from under it.  He keeps one arm around the bard and in his other hand he carries the apple juice.

He really hopes the apple juice is enough to buy Jaskier’s freedom from the wish.

The door opens by itself and more mist pours out from somewhere that Geralt can’t see.  “The fuck?”  He mutters before pulling Jaskier towards where the fog thickens.  He can hear pleased little gasps now, coming from multiple people.

It’s an orgy.  Geralt sighs.  “Hm.”

At the other end of the room sits a dark-haired woman with a lace mask and bright red lips.  The mage, he presumes.  He hitches Jaskier a little tighter against him and drags him toward the woman in black.  She eyes them curiously, but otherwise seems unbothered by their appearance.  The wend their way through the undulating forms.

Once they’re closer, Geralt realizes he won’t be able to pour the woman her apple juice and hold Jaskier at the same time.  He looks at the nearest pile of naked bodies, deems it safe enough, and drops the bard onto a cushion.  “Stay.”

The bard eyes him like he’s insane.  A woman runs her hand through the bard’s hair and Jaskier looks ecstatic and terrified all at once.  Geralt continues the rest of the way to the woman holding court on the dais above the orgy.

“I, uh,” he gets distracted by a particularly twisty move the couple next to him is performing.  “I brought you apple juice.”  He holds up the pitcher.

“And quite a bit more.”  She says, her voice a sultry blend of rasping languor and seduction.  This close, Geralt can smell the lilac and gooseberries of her perfume.  It is a rather pleasing scent, though a bit heavy.  “My magic doesn’t affect you.”

“I’m immune to most magic,” Geralt replies, somewhat apologetically.  It must be awkward to be a powerful sorceress and realize that your magic isn’t as potent as you thought.  “You must be the mage.”

“Yennefer of Vengerberg,” she introduces herself.  She sets aside her goblet.  “Is there something I can do for you?”

Geralt watches her closely.  She’s very graceful.  “We need your help.”

“’We’?”

He turns and looks at the pile he left Jaskier on.  The bard waves cheerily.  He turns to look back at the sorceress.

“A friend?”

“Hm.”  Geralt does not know whether to confirm or deny that statement.  He’s only known the bard for three weeks, but it’s hard not to get pulled in by the other man’s good cheer and friendly disposition.  Also, he never smells afraid of Geralt, even when Geralt yells at him.  It’s rather refreshing, actually.

Yennefer eyes him more closely.  “Your heartbeat is extraordinarily slow.”  She sounds like she’s trying to puzzle something out.  Geralt can guess what it is.  “You’re a mutant?”  She guesses.

“A witcher,” Geralt confirms.  “Geralt of Rivia,” he says, hoping to speed up the introductions a little and get to why he’s here with a bard of all things.

The sorceress gasps.  Geralt thinks it’s a little over the top and he’s been living with Jaskier for the last three weeks.  “A witcher!”  She stands and makes her way towards him.  “I thought you’d have fangs or horns or something.”

Geralt grimaces.  He’d like to meet the little shit that started that particular rumor so he can beat them to a pulp.  They’re on his troll-shit list.  Forever.  “I had them filed down.”

She chuckles like he’s said something particularly clever.  Geralt is getting very close to just grabbing Jaskier and finding someone else.  She continues to circle him and ask questions.  He reminds himself that Jaskier is in very real danger of having a mob attack him and tear him apart in their appreciation of the bard.

“Please,” he says instead.  “Jaskier needs immediate attention.”  The bard has the gall to wave him off when he looks over at him.  He’s also missing his doublet.  He turns back to the mage.  “And then, if you like, I’ll indulge your curiosity all night long.”

“It won’t take all night,” she simpers, barely sparing Jaskier a glance.  “I’m sure we can find…something to fill our time.”  She rakes her gaze down his body.  Geralt now has a little more appreciation for what Jaskier has been going through.  All those hot gazes, studying the bard’s body through his clothes like the bard is a piece of particularly juicy hare.

It makes something hot squirm uncomfortably in the witcher’s gut.  He holds up the bag he used to knock out the man at the gate.  “He made a wish of a djinn.”

That seems to shock her enough to cease whatever game she thinks she is playing.  “A djinn?”

“Whatever’s wrong with him, it’s spreading.”

She takes the bag from him and opens it, dumping the seal Jaskier had shown him all those weeks ago into her hand.  Why he’d kept that, but not the amphora the djinn had actually been sealed in, he’ll never know.  “Fix it, and I’ll pay you.  Whatever the price.”

She fixes him with a purple gaze.  “You’ll have to do better than juice.  Ragamuffin!”

*

“You’ll need to make your other two wishes,” the sorceress tells him.

Jaskier stares at her.  She’s very sexy.  “Why?”

“We need to break the connection between you and the djinn before I can break the spell.”  She sits on the edge of the bed she’d bade him to lie down on.  Geralt stands next to the bed, frowning at both of them.  “Otherwise, the wish will keep drawing power from it, and I won’t be able to break through it.”

“Right,” Jaskier huffs.  “What do I wish for?”  Two distinctly odd-colored gazes stare at him incredulously.

“Do you mean to tell me,” Geralt starts in that incredibly careful voice of his that means he’s trying not to be mad at Jaskier for something.  “That you tracked down a djinn solely to get people to like your music?”

“No!”  Jaskier protests, scrambling into a sitting position.  “I didn’t track down the djinn at all.  I caught it when I went fishing.”

The gazes do not leave his face, and in fact, seem to intensify.  “You caught djinn when you went fishing?”  The sorceress repeats.

Jaskier nods emphatically.  “I was in the woods, hungry, and thought I might as well try my hand with the net I had just procured.  Thinking about it, that may not have been the smartest idea.”

“No?”

The bard ignores Geralt’s interjection.  “The water wasn’t very clear.  Rather muddy actually.  And smelly.  I pulled up the amphora instead and let my heart guide me through the rest,” he finishes proudly.

There is a rather long silence before Yennefer starts laughing rather heartily.  “I search for a djinn for decades and you find one in the first swamp you come across?  How odd.”

After a moment, she stops laughing.  “Alright, I’ll help you.”

“I thought you already were?”  Jaskier is confused.

“I was intrigued enough to see if it was possible.  Now I’m interested enough in actually breaking the wish myself.”

Geralt steps forward, into her space.  Jaskier tells himself he’s not actually jealous of that intense gaze being focused on someone else.  “And you’re sure you can break it?”

She nods.  “Once he breaks the bond with the djinn, I’ll be able to reverse the wish.”  She stands and flows towards the door.  “I’ll need to get some things ready.  Stay here and relax.  I’ll be back soon.”

It’s not long before she sets up some candles and some sort of pentagram on the floor.  It reminds him of the design on the seal he’d pocketed after he threw the amphora away.  “It may take some time for me to completely overcome the wish,” she says, before the begin.

“What do you mean,” Geralt asks.  Jaskier stands next to the weird pentagram thing.

“I won’t be able to stop it’s affects right away,” she admits.  “It’s grown too powerful.  I’ll have to whittle away at it, bit by bit.  In the meantime, I’ll think up a suitable payment for the service.”

Geralt does his typical grunt and Jaskier can tell he’s not pleased but also doesn’t want to argue.

“Bard.”  Jaskier focuses back on the sorceress.  She smirks at him.  “Make your final wishes.”

Jaskier thinks for a moment and then projects in his best bard voice.  “Djinn!  It is I who has freed thee!  I am ready to make my second and third wishes.”  There is a breeze, which is odd because all the windows and doors to the room are closed.  Jaskier shrugs it off and continues.  “For my second wish, I wish for the continued health and happiness for those in this room for decades to come.”

“What are you doing?”  Geralt hisses.  Jaskier ignores him.  See, Geralt?  He can do it too!

“For my third and final wish,” the flames on the candles flicker and intensify.  “I wish to be granted a muse so that I may write many wonderful songs about their heroic and noble deeds.”  He very carefully does not look at Geralt, but he thinks the djinn will understand anyway.

Nothing happens.

“Great!”  Yennefer pushes him towards the door, shoving Geralt along as well.  Jaskier suspects that Geralt is letting himself be pushed.  She shoves a bottle into Jaskier’s hand.  “Drink this and I’ll see you in a month.”  She pushes a little box into his other hand.  “You can call me on this when it’s time. Bye!”

She shuts the door in his face.  He looks over to Geralt and shrugs.  “I guess she’s really eager to get started on that djinn problem.”

“Hmm.”

The entire building shakes.  “Jaskier, get out of here.”

“What?”

Geralt pushes him towards the end of the corridor.  “You need to go!”

Jaskier digs in his heels, resisting Geralt’s force, his boots sliding along the wood planks of the floor.  “What about you?”

“I’m going to save Yennefer.”

He turns around, dodging Geralt’s hands.  “Are you perhaps short of a marble?!”

“Hm.” 

He darts around Geralt and holds his hands out to his sides, blocking the way.  “Leave the very sexy but insane witch to her inevitable demise!”

“She’s your only hope of ridding yourself of the wish, Jaskier.  I can’t let her die.”  Gently, he grasps the bard by the shoulders and switches their positions.  “Get out of here.  I’ll be fine.”  He gives the bard one last push before disappearing back into the room.

Later, after the building partially collapses- and he mourns Geralt and then watches the man fuck a witch- he’ll wonder if he should have wished for something different.

*

The next time he sees Yennefer, it’s right before the bardic competition in Ard Carraigh.  It’s two days before the competition so he has some time to sight see.  Geralt has traveled with him, just to make sure that the potion that Yennefer had given him worked like she had promised.  It does, for the most part.  Men and women throw themselves at him less and the groping has gone down to a minimum when Geralt isn’t around and almost never happens when he is.

The few who try to touch Jaskier without his express permission tend to end up with broken fingers and sprained wrists courtesy of the witcher that follows him around.

There is a slight uptick in the forwardness of people a few days before they reach the city.  Jaskier calls Yennefer on the little box she gave him.

“I’ll meet you in Ard Carraigh,” she says.  “It’s time for your next dose.”

“Next dose?”

“I’ll explain when we meet.”  She cuts the connection.

And so, here he sits in a tavern, trying to fend off the advances of a much older man when Geralt escorts Yennefer into the room.  “Ah, Geralt!”  He hopes bringing attention to his very intimidating witcher friend will quell the man’s insistence.  Geralt looks exasperated at having to save him again.  Yennefer appears to be amused.

Once Geralt scares off the very forward gentleman, he guides Yennefer into a seat before taking his own next to Jaskier.  They’ve found that the closer Geralt stays to the bard the less likely it is that anyone tries anything.

“So, does that happen a lot?”

Geralt grunts.  “It happens all the time.”

Yennefer laughs delightedly.  She reaches into her coat pocket and hands the vial she pulls from there to Jaskier.  “Here, your next dose.”

“Oh, thank the gods!”  He rips the stopper out of the vial and down the potion in one gulp.

“Now, about my payment.”

Jaskier chokes.  “Payment?”  He manages to squeak out.

“Yes, payment bard.”  She smirks at him.  “Untangling a wish is no easy feat.  For now, the potion you’re taking will slow it’s progression.”  She pauses for dramatic effect.

Jaskier scowls.  That’s his bit.  She’s stealing his bit.  He is the king of pausing for dramatic effect and she is trying to usurp his throne.  And she’s not even doing it that well.  He glances over at Geralt, ready to make a snide comment, but pauses.  The man looks entranced by her.  He never looks like that when Jaskier is being dramatic.  Mostly, when Jaskier is telling a story, he just looks constipated.  Or hungry.  The two expressions are difficult for him to tell apart.

The bit-stealing wench is still talking.  Mulishly, Jaskier listens back in.  “You will accompany me on a dragon hunt.”

“What? A-a dragon hunt?!” 

The look she gives him causes his bits to shrivel in response.  Just a little.  “Yes, bard, a dragon hunt.  Though, your participation is not required.”  She turns back to Geralt.  “The witcher’s is mandatory, however.”

Jaskier props his head on a hand.  “Right.”

She stands in preparation to leave.  Geralt stands as well.  Defiantly, Jaskier remains sitting.  He’s not at court anymore.  He doesn’t have to stand.  And besides, courtly behaviors are for ladies.  Which Yennefer is not.  Even though she is helping him with his not-so-little wish problem.  Geralt can stop glaring at him at any time now, thank you.

“The hunt takes place a month from now.  That should give you enough time to reach Hengfors.”  She shakes out her skirts.  “You’ll need at least one more dose before you reach the mountain.  Call me when you’re ready.”  She catches Geralt’s eye and he escorts her out, apparently no longer worried about Jaskier now that he’s had his potion.

He’s gone for several hours and by the time he gets back Jaskier is sloshed.  Absolutely and completely drunk.  He’s also flirting with two ladies and a rather comely gentleman with big arms.  Geralt scowls at him, but Jaskier waves him off.  Everything’s fine.  Or will be fine.

He goes to bed with them even though Geralt’s giving him the eyebrow because fuck Geralt.  Except he’s not and that’s shame so instead he lets the comely gentleman fuck into him while one of the ladies is beneath Jaskier.  For a time, he feels wanted for himself.  For a moment, he can forget that outside of the wish, Geralt wants nothing to do with him.  For a while, he can believe that the witcher cares for him.

It doesn’t really work, but he tells himself it does.

*

He wins the Bardic Competition of Ard Carraigh rather handily with a ballad he penned the day before he was to sing, titling it ‘Her Sweet Kiss’.  Valdo seems to be struck with apoplexy when he hears the final results.  Idly, Jaskier wonders if the man will die from his distress, it is that prevalent.

He also avoids speaking with Geralt more than necessary both before and after the competition.  He tells Geralt it’s because he has had a stroke of inspiration and needs to concentrate, which is true before the competition.

After the bardic competition, he tells Geralt that he’s had another genius idea and keeps playing the same little tune on his lute.  “…Hm hmhm to your Witcher,” he hums to himself as they walk north and west toward the Buina Pass in the Kestrel Mountains.  Well, he walks.  Geralt still rides Roach and won’t let Jaskier ride by himself.  Selfish of him, really.  He’s an excellent rider.  Roach would enjoy the experience immensely.   Geralt is depriving Roach of a singular experience.

“Depriving her of an aching back, more like,” grumbles Geralt when Jaskier brings it up again on the fourth day of walking.  They’re stopping at Vespaden along the Gwenllech to deal with a drowner problem.  Or at least, Geralt suspects it’s a drowner problem.

Jaskier has been trying to persuade Geralt into letting him accompany the witcher on the hunt.  Geralt has so far said ‘no’.  The bard tries to appeal to his softer side, citing that he can’t mend Geralt’s reputation like he swore he would do when they first met over two months ago.  He needs details!  He needs to see the action.  He needs to be involved in the process, Geralt.

Geralt’s response changes to ‘hell no’.  Jaskier counts this as a step in the right direction.

They make the town of Vespaden in just under a week.  Geralt says he’ll only need a day to take care of the drowners and then they can leave the day after he finishes the contract for Hengfors.  So, maybe two nights in the town.  Jaskier can earn them some coin while he’s holed up in the tavern. 

He prepares to settle in for the morning on the day Geralt goes to complete the contract.  He picks a table at random and starts to work on his newest song.

Geralt leaves him to it.

He waits exactly ten minutes before gathering his belongings, shoving them into his lute case, and swinging it all across his back.  The tavern owner gives him a mildly concerned look, but otherwise says nothing.  Jaskier thinks this is very smart of him.

Jaskier is not a man to be underestimated in his desire to pursue a story and a song.  He is a grown man that can make his own choices.  Geralt does not own him.  Geralt does not get to tell Jaskier what to do.

Determinedly, he sets out toward where the witcher was told the drowners had been gathering.

*

“You don’t scare me, witcher,” the tavern-keep blusters when Geralt warns him off Jaskier.  He’d seen the man eyeing the bard’s arse when he bent over to retrieve his lute the night before.

The witcher steps closer to the man, using his height and what Jaskier has deemed his ‘scary face’ to intimidate the man.  The tavern-keep holds up his hands in surrender.  “Alright, I won’t lay a hand on him.  I swear!”

“Hm,” Geralt grunts before turning and mounting Roach.

“Fair game though if he touches me first,” he hears the man mutter.  Internally, Geralt screams.

Thankfully, the drowners aren’t too difficult to deal with.  At least, they aren’t until a fifth sneaks off around the back and he hears a high-pitched scream.  It’s Jaskier’s scream.  He remembers it from the betrothal feast.  He breaks into a run.

He finds Jaskier moments later, a third of the way up a tree, swinging his lute at the drowner that is currently jumping at his feet.  The drowner is so occupied with its prey that it does not notice Geralt shove his sword through the back of its head, killing it instantly.

“Oh, Geralt!  Hello!  Fancy meeting you here.”  Jaskier reclines back on his branch, cradling the lute against his stomach.

“Jaskier,” Geralt growls.

“Are you following me?  You scamp!”  From his spot at the bottom of Jaskier’s tree he can see that the bard is sweating profusely, and he smells nervous.  “I mean, I’m flattered and everything, but you should really think about getting a hobby one of these days.”

“Jaskier.”  The growl is more pronounced now.  “Get down here.”

Nervous laughter erupts from the bard.  “What?  Why?  It’s very comfortable up here.  I think I’ll stay a while.”  It is at that moment that Jaskier’s tenuous balance leaves him and he slips off the limb he was perched upon.

“Fuck!”  Geralt darts in quickly, managing to catch the bard in his arms, bending his knees to absorb the shock.  Jaskier looks at him with wide eyes, his mouth caught in an ‘o’ of surprise.

Geralt wants to kiss him.

He drops the bard instead.  “Ow!  Geralt!  What the fuck?”

“Consider it your penance for following me when I told you not to.”  He turns from the bard and while Jaskier yells at him about courtly manners and ruining his silks, Geralt quietly loses his mind.  Or maybe he’d already lost it and is just now realizing it.

He stalks away from the bard, back toward the town, gathering Roach on the way.  Behind him he hears Jaskier scramble up from the dirt and wipe himself off before hurrying after him.  Something in him is quietly pleased at this.  Internally, he screams some more.  This is not okay.  He’s supposed to protect the bard from unwanted advances, not add to them.

That’s when he realizes.  The wish has been getting stronger.  Perhaps Geralt is not as immune as he thought himself to be.  He grimaces to himself.  He needs to remove himself from the bard’s presence before he does something inexcusable to the man.  Behind him, he hears Jaskier slip and he turns instinctively to catch him with one arm around his waist.

The bard’s eyes are wide and grateful and very blue.  His eyes trail over Jaskier’s face to his soft, pink lips.  He still wants to kiss the man.  He is still able to restrain himself from doing so.

It’s at that moment that Geralt decides that he will travel with Jaskier for as long as he possibly can.  He will fight the wish’s power with everything he has.  Jaskier deserves at least one friend in all this mess.  

Geralt will be that friend even if it kills him.

*

They’re a few days outside of Hengfors in a small village on another small contract when Jaskier calls Yennefer on the xenovox. The potion is wearing off again.  And this time he seems to be attracting more than just humans. 

At least the cave troll had been very sweet to him.  Unlike some people.  Jaskier turns to glare up at Geralt from where he’s been slung over Roach’s back.

“What?”

“Is this really necessary?”  He gestures to himself tied across the horse’s back like a sack of potatoes.

“Yes.”  Jaskier swears he sees the twitch of lips as Geralt tries not to smile.  He’s fairly certain that it is, indeed, not necessary and that Geralt just likes torturing him.  Whatever.  He gets to ride Roach, as uncomfortable as the position is, and watch Geralt walk.  Who’s really making out ahead here?  Jaskier is.  And by a lot, in his own estimation.

Yennefer meets them in Hengfors a few days later, a week before the hunt is to take place.  “We’re to meet with the others in Caingorn in a village at the base of the Dragon Mountains,” she says while handing over the potion to Jaskier.  “King Niedamir wishes to rid his people of the dragon that has been terrorizing them.”

“Others?”

She eyes Jaskier before answering.  “I was contracted to hunt the dragon by Sir Eyck of Denesle; to accompany his party.”

“Then why do you need me?”  This time it’s Geralt who asks the question.

“You’re a monster hunter.  Dragons are monsters.  Or, at least, this one is,” she huffs.

Jaskier swirls a finger around the rim of his mug.  “Dragons.  Hard to believe they’re real.”

“They’re intelligent.”  Geralt says.  He stares at Yennefer.  “I don’t hunt sentient creatures.”

Geralt’s intense gaze is making Jaskier uncomfortable and it’s not even directed at him.  Or maybe it’s because it’s not directed at Jaskier that makes it feel so disagreeable.

Yennefer’s mouth curls into a coy smile.  “Aren’t you at least curious?  It might not even be a dragon.  It could be a forktail blown out of proportion.”

Jaskier is familiar enough with the monsters Geralt hunts to know that a forktail would be in keeping with Geralt’s list of problematic creatures.  He can tell the man is intrigued.

“Hm.”  It seems like they’re going up that mountain after all.

The sorceress seems to know it as well.  She stands, smoothing down her skirts.  “I’ll see you in the tavern at Holopole.  That’s where the groups are gathering.”

“Groups?”  Jaskier questions, but the sorceress is already sweeping her way out of the establishment they had met her in for the potion handover.

Geralt does not follow her this time.  Jaskier tries not to feel pleased about this.

*

They reach Holopole six days later.  It is the day before they are supposed to set off and the tavern is rather crowded for something so far removed from the rest of civilization.  The potion Yennefer gave him seems to be working.  Hardly anyone gives him a second look.  Jaskier is relieved.

They’re sitting down at a table, waiting for their drinks to arrive- they have Est Est, Jaskier is delighted to find out- when a man and two beautiful women join them.  “I’ve been looking everywhere for you, Geralt of Rivia!”  The man announces joyfully.

“Hmm.”

“Um, excuse me, who are you?”  Jaskier interjects.

“I am Borch Three Jackdaws.”  He gestures to the two women along side him.  “These are my companions Tèa and Vèa.”  The man stares at Geralt before grinning widely at him.  “This is a first for me, and that’s saying something.  I have very few firsts left.”

“So do I,” Jaskier mutters into his drink.  He feels Geralt very deliberately set down his drink to glare at him.  Jaskier ignores the feeling and continues to sip his drink.  Eventually, Geralt’s attention is drawn back to Borch.

“To dine with the Geralt of Rivia,” the man continues, his voice filled with awe.  “Your adventures are legend.”

Jaskier perks up at that.  “I’m actually working on a new song for that.”

They ignore him.  That’s fine.  He hasn’t finished the song yet anyway.  It will be a sensation when he does though.  He knows it.

“I suppose you want to know why I’ve sought out such an accomplished monster hunter?”  Borch asks Geralt.

Geralt, in fact, does not look like he cares to know.  “Don’t trouble yourself on my account.  I’m just here for food.”  And Yennefer, Jaskier silently adds.

Borch chuckles.  “I knew I’d like you.  That was the first reason.”  He turns to the innkeeper.  “One of everything you have,” he shouts.  “And keep the ale coming!”

The innkeeper acknowledges the order and Borch turns back to Geralt.  Jaskier feels a bunch of boring exposition is going to be happening and decides to tune it out in favor of watching Vèa quaff her ale.  It was really rather…elegant.  “You have the most incredible neck,” he tells her.

She gives him a side-eye, still drinking.  “It’s like a-a sexy goose.”  This time, he feels everyone looking at him, including Geralt who looks like the ale turned sour mid-gulp and he’s not sure if he should swallow or not.  “Guzzling,” he finishes.

Vèa wipes her mouth with a hand and Borch continues his monologue.  Jaskier determinedly stares at his cup of Est Est.

“What does this have to do with me?”  He hears Geralt ask.

Borch looks at the witcher, eyes soft and pleading.   It reminds Jaskier of the kittens he used play with as a boy on his parents’ estate.  “I want you to join my team.”

“I can’t.” 

The old knight looks heartbroken.  “You can’t?”

“I’ve already been commissioned by another.”  He nods to where the door to the tavern just opened allowing another knight, relatively young, and a violet-eyed sorceress to enter.

“I see.”  For a moment, Jaskier sees something deep and sorrowful in the man’s eyes.  “Well, then, perhaps we can team up for part of the journey.”  He stands and the women stand with him.  “Thank you for your time, Geralt.”

He departs and silence reigns at the table. 

“Are you sure we can’t join him?”

“Jaskier.”

“Oh, alright.”

The next morning the four groups gather at the trail head.  There’s a small paddock and a hitching post set up in the clearing.  The dwarf leading the dwarven group, introduces himself as Yarpen Zigrin to Geralt.  He completely ignores Jaskier.

That’s fine.  Great, even.  Means the potion is working.

“Geralt.  Jaskier.”  Yennefer makes her way over to them.  “Still just friends I hope?”

Jaskier narrows his eyes at her.  “Why?  What are you implying?”

She scoffs at him.  “Just making sure my potion is still working.”

“It works great-“ “Actually, I need to speak to you-“  Geralt and Jaskier talk over each other.  Jaskier motions for Geralt to go ahead.

“I need to speak with you.  When you have a moment.”  Jaskier takes that as his cue to go find something else to do.  He decides that he does not want to be the one awkwardly left behind this time.

 He’ll be the one to awkwardly leave instead.

*

Geralt glares at Yennefer.  “What do you want, Yennefer?”

“What do I want?”  She asks, innocently.  “I thought you wanted something.”

Geralt shakes his head.  “Later.”

She gestures behind her to the knight she’d been with the evening before.  “This is Sir Eyck of Denesle.  He will be leading our group.”

The knight nods to him.  “It’s good to meet you, sir witcher.”

“I’m no ‘sir,’” Geralt replies.  The knight looks put out but doesn’t make any attempt to argue the point.  Good.  “Yennefer, if you have a moment?”  He gestures to the far side of the clearing.

“I thought you wanted to wait until ‘later’.”

Geralt shakes his head.  “It occurs to me that it might be better to ask you now, before we start the journey.”  He glances to where Jaskier has set about making Roach comfortable and feeding her small bits of apple.  His horse is getting spoiled.  The urge to take Jaskier into his arms rises.

He turns back to Yennefer.  “Are you able to tell who is and isn’t immune to Jaskier’s wish?”

“What do you mean?”

He sighs.  “I mean, that while your potions seem to work on humans just fine, Jaskier was kidnapped by a cave troll several days ago.”

Her violet eyes widen.  “You’re joking.”

He stares at her.  “You’re not joking.”  She rubs a gloved finger over her bottom lip.  “Hm, that’s interesting.  The wish may be evolving.  Since it can’t be fulfilled through humans because of my potions, it has moved on to humanoids.”

He sighs again.  “Fuck.  I was afraid you’d say that.”

Sharps eyes catch his own.  “Geralt, what is this really about?”

For life of him, Geralt can’t say it.  He can’t say that he thinks he’s fallen for the stupid, idiotic, kind (to his friends), spiteful (to one troubadour in particular), horse-spoiling bard.  “I-uh.”  He panics.  “I don’t want to have to fight another cave troll to get him back.”

Yennefer looks amused.  “I’ll have to study it.  I’ll let you know what I find.”

“Thank you, Yenn.”

Geralt finds himself watching Jaskier as he interacts with the others throughout the day.  He trades stories with the dwarves and talks the two Zerrikanian women’s ears off about the ballad he’ll write for them.

“You worry if you blink, you’ll never see him again.”  Borch nods sagely.  “He influences people.  He’s rather enchanting, isn’t he?”

“No,” Geralt drawls.

Borch looks startled.  “No?  You’re not in love with him?”

Geralt’s hand tightens around the strap of his swords’ sheathing.  “No,” he says again, firmer.

“I had thought nothing scared you, Geralt of Rivia.  Perhaps I was mistaken.”  The old man slows his pace, allowing the bard and his two companions to catch up to him.  Geralt continues on ahead.

It’s not long after that conversation that they come upon the site of the dragon’s attack.  There are deep scars burnt into the land.  “Melitele preserve us,” he hears the bard utter from behind him.

Borch joins him in studying the gouges on the mountain side.  “I don’t get it.  Dragons avoid people.  Why the retaliation?”

The old man clasps his hands behind his back.  “When your species is on the verge of collapse, perhaps everything seems more desperate,” he says wisely.

Geralt doesn’t really have anything to say to this.  The old man is right, in a way.

They continue after a brief rest.  The path is getting steeper and rockier.  And still, Jaskier still finds breath to speak.  This time, the subject seems to be flower crowns and preferred methods for making a good one.

“Yeah, I mean, you can use twigs, but I personally prefer using flowers, you know?  Roses.  Daffodils.”  Melitele preserve him, was Jaskier going to name all the flowers he could think of?  It was going to be the fish debacle all over again.  “A cactus, if she’s really into it.”

What?  Geralt decides he doesn’t actually want to know.

“Ladies, you look famished.”  Jaskier announces.  “Allow me to wander aimlessly into this thicket and retrieve for you, uh- a tasty afternoon treat.”  Geralt turns around to find that his bard has wandered off the path and into the bushes.  The bard, he means.

“I am hungry.  Is anyone else hungry?” 

Geralt watches from above as the bard slowly turns around before continuing in further and sighting a bush filled with red berries and begins to pick them.  He wonders if Jaskier would let him lick the juice from his lips.  He then very carefully does not think any further.

“There’s something back here.”  He hears the bard call to the rest of the group.  “It sort of looks like a faun.”

There’s no such thing as fauns and how would the bard know that anyway, even if there were?  He’d best get him out of there before something tried to eat the poet.  “Jaskier.”

And is promptly ignored.

“Hello…hello, little fella.”  He can hear little whimpers from the animal Jaskier has found.  “Aw, aren’t you just the cutest…m-most terrifying thing I’ve ever seen in my entire life.  Right, um, run away.  Run away!  Geralt!”  Jaskier calls for him as he runs back to them.  He swings his swords off his shoulder but hesitates to draw.  The animal doesn’t seem to be chasing Jaskier.  The bard runs past him.  “It’s one of your friends again,” he mutters.  A low moan comes from the animal.  “Ahh!”

Geralt can see it clearly now.  The dwarf asks what it is.  “A hirikka.  It’s probably starving.  Sheathe your weapons.”

This is when Sir Eyck of Denesle decides to do the exact opposite of what Geralt said by knocking over Yarpen, drawing his sword, and striking the hirikka.  It makes a rather tragic whimpering sound as Eyck slashes at it.  The death is not clean and Geralt hates it.

He can tell Jaskier hates it too. 

*

Jaskier didn’t mean to lead the poor faun thing to its death.  He just ran back towards Geralt because he knew he would protect him, whether that meant killing a particularly dangerous monster or scaring away one that wasn’t.  The fact that the hirikka hadn’t run him down probably meant it was one of the latter and not the former.

He feels sorry for the beast and, also, a little disgusted by Sir Eyck and his overzealous sword swinging.  Yennefer seems unaffected, but she once tried to bottle a genie in her body- the wrong way, he’s been told- so he wasn’t sure she was a great measure for sanity by any means. 

Even worse, however, is when Eyck decides he needs to put the hirikka’s head on a pike and cook the meat.  Jaskier is very much not interested in having any.  If the manner of death hadn’t put him off already, remembering Geralt’s rants about monster meat being different from non-magical animals and their rather ill effects on human systems would have.

Borch is the only one kind enough to try to warn him and even the old man doesn’t try that hard.

The bard decides to ignore the whole mess and write in his notebook instead, wanting to get the day’s events down before they faded from his memory.  It’s only been one day but so many things have already happened.  So, he’s not really listening to Eyck proselytizing on the virtues of a good knight and why he’d make a great lord.

Jaskier’s father would have much to say on the subject as well, the bard thinks.  He bets they’d get along great.  He snorts a little at the thought of them circling the same topic of their greatness and never really saying anything of import.  He looks at Geralt, wanting to share his thoughts, but the man is caught up in staring at Yennefer again.  Intently.

That’s when the leader of the Crinfrid Reavers decides to add his own two crowns.  “How would you like to serve me tonight, Witch?”

“Careful, Boholt.”  Jaskier tells himself he’s not jealous of Geralt defending Yennefer.  Just because he’s used to the man saving him from unwanted advances doesn’t mean that Jaskier has a monopoly on it.  Then Geralt says she’s plenty capable of murdering the Reavers’ captain herself and Jaskier feels just a little jealous after all.  Geralt would never say something like that about him.  Not in that low, confident voice, like he has every faith in her to protect herself.

Geralt once had to untangle him from his own bed sheets when they’d gotten twisted around him from turning about too much.  And that wasn’t even the most embarrassing scrape Geralt’s had to save him from.

Boholt finishes his threat, tosses the meat he’d been picking at to Yarpen, and walks away.

Good timing, too, for Sir Eyck seems to be in some distress.  The man makes a soft grunt and stands.  “Um, I’m afraid I must take my leave.”  He sounds strained.  Jaskier watches him closely.  “Lady Yennefer, may I escort you to your tent?”

“Will you be joining me?” She simpers.  Jaskier gets the feeling she is trying to make a point to Geralt.

“Uh- My Lady, I would never degrade your honor in such a way.”  Eyck trips over his words.

Jaskier snorts.  “I hate to break it to you, but that ship has sailed, wrecked and sunk to the bottom of the ocean.”

Geralt smacks him in the shoulder with the back of his hand.  “Ow,” he says, even though it doesn’t really hurt.  Geralt’s too good at pulling his own strength to actually hurt him.  He wants to make a point anyway.

It seems Eyck can no longer hold out and stumbles away from the fire, face red and breath straining.  “I need a shit,” he hears faintly.

He waits exactly two seconds before trading a look with Yarpen and chuckling.  Talk turns briefly to politics before Yennefer excuses herself, citing her need for beauty sleep.  Yarpen and his dwarves excuse themselves as well.

“So,” he says into the silence.  “We’re all about to have new evil overlords, and dragons are, in fact, a thing.”  He’s still betting on a forktail or another basilisk.  People confuse the two often enough, according to Geralt.  “Good day all around.”

The rest of the party chuckles.  “Oh, what?  You’ve all seen a dragon before?  Geralt will you please tell them?”  But Geralt isn’t looking like he usually does when he’s about to school the ignorant masses on the difference between a griffin and a cockatrice.  He looks at Jaskier, soft and serious.

“Their numbers are dwindling,” is what he says instead.  His voice takes on the quality of a teacher with a favored pupil as he explains the dragons’ plight to Jaskier.  He keeps his eyes on the bard the entire time he speaks.

Jaskier has never felt more in love with the man and his kind heart than he does at that moment.

Then Borch makes a joke about Geralt becoming a knight, albeit a shitty one for not slaying dragon, though not at shitty as Sir Eyck currently is.

There’s more laughter and then Geralt suggests that they turn in for the night as well.  They’ll be getting another early start in the morning.  Jaskier not thrilled about this.

He is thrilled when Geralt settles down next to him, though in that weird meditation pose thing he does when he wants to rest but won’t actually sleep.  The witcher rests on his knees near Jaskier’s head.  He tries not to think about how this almost like the last time he fantasized about the witcher, albeit with more clothing than he’d like.

The next morning finds Sir Eyck dead, throat slit, trousers around his ankles.  “Who slits a man’s throat when he’s relieving his bowels,” Jaskier wonders aloud.  “Is nothing sacred anymore?”  He’s never going to be able to relieve himself in peace ever again.

The dwarves offer to share their shortcut with them, clearly suspecting the Reavers to be behind Eyck’s untimely demise.  Jaskier looks to Geralt walking alongside him at the back of the line matching Jaskier’s slow pace.  He’s not sure how much he trusts Yarpen.  The dwarf has been rather courteous- though a bit rough- with everyone but the Reavers.

Geralt cups a gentle hand around Jaskier’s elbow and then pushes him along ahead of him.  “Go on.  I’ll catch up.”  And then he goes after Yennefer.

Jaskier is really starting to wonder if there’s something wrong with him.  Whether he’s talking about the witcher or himself, he’s not sure.

*

Geralt catches up to Yennefer and asks if she killed Eyck.  He doesn’t really think she did, but he’s curious as to what she’ll say.  Somehow, it devolves from there to choice, children, and his Child Surprise that he acquired a few months ago.  This conversation is not going as he’d hoped it would.  Mostly, he’d just wanted to invite her along on the dwarves’ secret passage.

Also, he wants to ask about Yenn’s assessment on Jaskier’s wish and its mutating properties.  He’s a little worried about what will happen if they find this dragon.  And his own sanity because Jaskier was looking especially delicious today with his cheek streaked with dirt.

Eventually, he gets out what he means to say and invites Yennefer with them.

They catch up to the dwarves right before they head out onto the narrow wood planks hugging the cliff face.  He can tell that Jaskier is anxious and manfully restrains himself from taking the bard into his arms.  He suggests that they turn back, instead.

Yarpen laughs and heads out onto the trail, mocking them to follow.  Yennefer pushes Jaskier ahead out in front of her after Jaskier politely offers for her to go first and then steps out onto the wood planking herself.  Geralt would have preferred to be next to the bard himself, but he supposes putting Jaskier in the middle of the pack is really the safest option for the bard.

Geralt’s heart nearly leaps into his throat when Jaskier slips and he has to curb his urge to push Yennefer over the side of the cliff to get to the bard.  He still needs her to break the curse-wish, he reminds himself before he does more than raise a hand.

The bard recovers just fine and they continue onward.

The next time a plank breaks, however, it is much more tragic.

“Geralt!”  Jaskier yells for him.  He hears the bard try to shuffle towards him.

“Get back,” he turns and bellows at the bard.  He grips the thick chain tightly in his hand.  It does not make a difference.  Borch thanks him and lets go.  Geralt watches him, and then his loyal companions, fall.  He doesn’t look away the entire time.

They make it to the precipice of the next peak as the sun starts settling towards dusk.  Geralt settles on a rock and gazes out over the mountain range.  He’s not thinking of anything in particular.  Or, it would be more accurate to say, he’s trying not to think of anything in particular.

Jaskier joins him on his boulder.  “You did your best,” the bard tells him.

Geralt does not feel like he did his best, but it’s kind Jaskier to say so.  Jaskier can be very judging and spiteful when he wants to be.  “Hm.”

“There’s nothing else you could have done.”  Wasn’t there?  Geralt isn’t so sure.  “Look, why don’t we leave tomorrow?  Go to the coast.  Take a break.”  Geralt remains silent.  “You must want something for yourself once all this nonsense is over with.”  He does want something, and that something is sitting right next to him, trying to comfort a witcher over death.  How is this bard real?

“I want nothing,” Geralt replies instead.  It’s a lie.  He wants Jaskier.  He wants the bard, but he can’t be sure if it is what he wants or if it is what the wish wants him to feel

He can’t want anything, anyway.  Wanting leads to having, and having leads to losing, and he does not want to lose the bard.  He’s never felt like this before.  It must be the wish’s influence.

“You’re allowed to want things, Geralt,” the bard says before squeezing his should and getting up.

No, he isn’t.

Instead of following the bard like he wants to, he goes to Yennefer’s tent.  What he wants, what he needs, right now, is to forget.

He loses himself in Yennefer’s scent, the feel of her soft skin, the taste of her lips.

It isn’t what he wants, but it’s enough for now.

In the morning, he leaves Jaskier to his rest.  The bard had been lagging the day before.  He thinks on Jaskier’s proposal to turn around and go back down the mountain.  He quite likes the idea.  He tries to convince Yenn on the merit of the idea, but she’s determined to see the dragon.

When she takes off, he runs after her, leaving Jaskier behind.  He can’t have the sorceress that will free him from this curse’s influence dying on him prematurely.

She’s quite fast for a woman in heavy skirts.

*

Jaskier wakes up alone. 

He’d gone to bed the same way.

He looks around the empty camp, hoping that Geralt had just wandered off to relieve himself and will be back in a moment.  “Geralt,” he calls.  “Dwarves?”  No one answers.

With no better leads, he grabs his lute and sets off up the mountain path.  He tries to hurry, but even with all the walking he’s not really built for quick paces and finds himself out of breath rather quickly.

“Oh, gosh.  Phew!”  He pants.  Up ahead, he sees the dwarves.  “Oh, what’d I miss?”  He gasps out between breaths.  They don’t answer him.  They also aren’t moving.  “Guys?  What’s going on?  Are we queuing for something?”

Still no answer.  He looks up ahead and sees bodies splashed in red.  Geralt.  “Oh no!”  As he gets closer, he doesn’t see the witcher.  “Oh fuck.  What happened?”  He turns around in circle, surveying the carnage.

When he turns around again, Tèa and Vèa are behind him.  “Oh gosh!”  He skitters backwards and bends over in surprise.  “Oh, bloody hell!  What the fuck are you doing here?”  He waves a hand at them.

Seriously, what the fuck has happened since Geralt left him the night before?  Did he sleep through everything?  How’s he going to make the best ballad ever if he missed all the good parts?

The dwarves run up behind him, weapons drawn.  Then Yarpen looks around and throws down his sword.  “Well, that’s fuckin’ shite!  We missed a whole mother lode of fun!”

Jaskier’s sentiments exactly.  Well, close enough.

Then Borch reappears.  So, the old man survived as well.  He’s not as surprised as he thinks he should be.  Also, where is Geralt?  He looks around, back towards the cave, trying to figure out where the man has gotten to.  He’s getting a little worried, now.  Geralt has never left him by himself for this long.  Usually, the wish starts making itself known and he needs the witcher to pull some overzealous farmer’s wife off him by now.

Maybe he should climb mountains more often.  It’s been rather peaceful, all things considered.

After Borch’s words about dropping a body of a dragon on the king’s royal wedding, he starts to suspect what happened.

Geralt and Yennefer come out of the cave together.  He pretends it doesn’t hurt to see them together.

Borch explains to them why he sought Geralt out, and thanks them for saving the baby dragon.  Well, he thanks Geralt and Yennefer.

And then, for some reason, Yennefer is yelling at Geralt about his Child Surprise and storming away.  Hmm, that song he wrote might have been a bit too on the nose.

Geralt looks a little gutted, though, so he tries to cheer him up.  And gets his heart broken instead.

“Dammit, Jaskier.  Why is it when I find myself in a pile of shit these days, it’s you, shoveling it?”

Well, that’s not fair.  He says so.  He can’t help he hired Geralt to save him from the advances of everyone and their mother. He was very clear on the job description.

“The Child Surprise, the djinn, all of it!”  Now, hold a minute.  He just happened to be at the same betrothal feast as Geralt.  And the djinn…okay, well, maybe Geralt has a point on that one.  But that happened months before he met the man.

“If life could give me one blessing, it would be to take you off my hands.”

Right then.  He can do that.  “I’ll go get the rest of the story from the others,” he excuses himself.  There are no others.  The Reavers are all dead and the dwarves are as much in the dark as he is.  Actually, at this point, he likely knows more than they do.

He walks away from the witcher’s back.  Maybe the dwarves haven’t made it too far and he can travel with them.

*

He can feel Borch watching him.

“You wanted to show me what I was missing?”  He motions to where Jaskier had once stood.  “There he goes.”

Borch draws nearer to him.  “What you’re missing is still out there.  Your destiny.  I know it.  And you know it.”  He starts to walk away from Geralt but pauses after a few steps and turns back to him.  “He got to you, didn’t he?”

He has, Geralt admits now.  And that’s why he had to chase Jaskier away.  The wish was taking a stronger and stronger hold of him, every day.  It has become almost unbearable to look at Jaskier and know that he cannot have him. 

A little later, he finds Yenn packing up her tent, and asks her the question he’s wanted to ask her on the first day of this journey.

She ruins him with her answer.  “You’re immune.”

“Uh.”  He winces.  “Ah, fuck.”

“You’re not his audience,” she continues to explain.  “You’re his muse.”

That gives Geralt pause.  “His third wish?”

She nods.  “It offers no compulsion to you, however.  Whatever you feel for the bard is yours alone.”

He allows himself a tiny sliver of hope.  “And Jaskier?”

“While he may be compelled to write songs about you, he is not compelled to love you.”  She hesitates a moment before stating, “your love is your own.”

He stares at her.  “I have to go find him.”

“That would probably be for the best, yes.”

He hesitates before leaving.  “Thank you, Yenn.”

*

He doesn’t find Jaskier right away.  At first, he’s going to, but the bard is nowhere to be found.  From what he can tell, the man met up with the dwarves on his way down and the walked to the base of the mountain together.

After that, it seems Destiny takes a great deal of pleasure in laughing at him by impeding him at every turn.  He gets asked to take care of a contract in Holopole, another cave troll, apparently searching for her partner’s ‘wordy-birdy luvmans’.  Geralt refrains from rubbing his temples as the implication of who she is looking for becomes clear.  That fucking curse-wish.

Once he’s assured her that the ‘luvmans’ won’t be returning, she goes back to her cave, several days away.  She’d been very determined.  Geralt admires that.  Also, only Jaskier could somehow cuckold a cave troll without actually doing anything to earn the title. This time.

He continues south.  Mostly because he’s so far north there really isn’t much choice in the matter.

It’s in Houlborg that starts questioning himself and his motives for finding Jaskier.  As far as he knows, the potion Yennefer makes for the bard mitigates the symptoms of the wish well enough that he doesn’t need Geralt.  Also, Geralt doesn’t need him.

To prove this, he spends the last of his coin at a brothel.  When he comes back out, smelling of sex and sweat, he feels Roach eyeing him disapprovingly.  “Don’t judge me,” he mutters to his horse.

Several days later, he can still feel her displeasure.  Or she’s just upset that she is no longer getting apples and sugar cubes as the same rate that she had been for the previous three months before he chased Jaskier away.

No, he’s not projecting onto his horse at all.  Why do you ask?

It’s when he’s finally thinking of giving up that he hears the rumor.  A sorcerer has claimed a tower in Gulet.  And in that tower, he has his own personal bard.  A most wonderful, delightful bard whose silky chestnut hair and bright blue eyes charm everyone that comes to hear him sing.

Geralt’s heart drops out from his stomach.  Jaskier.  It has to be.  What has the bard gotten himself into now?

He rides hard for the city in Aedirn.  It takes him a full week to get there.  He finds the tower easily enough.  There’s a crowd of people surrounding the bottom.  One of them asks him if he’s there to listen to the famous bard, too.

He doesn’t answer because at that moment a window halfway up the tower opens and a familiar figure steps out onto the balcony.  The figure is loosely holding a lute in front of himself.  He begins to play.  It’s a song Geralt has not heard before.  He thinks the lute is new, too.

The people around him are entranced.  When Jaskier gets a particular section of the song, he winces.  “That’s not what happened,” he mutters to himself.  And that’s when it hits him.  Someone’s hand raises in cheer and backhands him across the face.

“Ow,” the person mutters.  “Is your face made of granite?!”

Geralt sniffs and scrunches his nose at the person and then promptly ignores him in favor of focusing back on Jaskier.

He feels no outside compulsion to go to him.  He wants to, make no mistake.  But he’s also content to stand here a listen to a wildly inaccurate retelling of his encounter with Filavandrel and his Elves.  He feels a sense of fondness creep over him as he watches the bard.

Once the song ends, the crowd calls for another, but Jaskier bows and demurs.  “I apologize good people of Gulet, but one song a day is all I am allowed to sing to you.  I must take my leave.”  He melts back into the darkness of the tower, pulling the window closed behind him.

Someone in the crowd boos, but otherwise they disperse easily enough.

Geralt, however, stays.  There’s something wrong going on here.  He approaches the door at the bottom of the tower, hesitating before deciding to just knock.  The door opens.  What he finds inside is vastly different than what he expects.  And, also, rather familiar.

He knows this illusion.  His instincts are proven correct when an older-looking man approaches him from the shadows of the corridor. 

“Witcher.  We meet again.”

“Stregobor.”

“To what do I owe the honor?”  The man smirks at him.

Geralt would very much like to wipe that smirk off with his fist but restrains himself.  “Heard you had a rather singular bard holed up here.  Thought I’d come see for myself.”

“Ah, yes.  Julian!”  He calls.

Geralt frowns.  Julian?  Didn’t Jaskier once say that was what his real name was?  And didn’t he also say he hated it?

The man that joins then is Jaskier.  Geralt would know those blue eyes and summer scent anywhere. 

“This is Julian,” Stregobor introduces them.  “He is, as you said, a rather singular bard.”  He puts a hand on the bard’s elbow and Geralt tells himself very harshly that he cannot break this man’s fingers.  At least, not yet.  “Julian, this is the witcher, Geralt of Rivia.”

“A pleasure to meet you, Geralt,” Jaskier says.  Something in his eyes begs Geralt to play along.  He holds out a hand to shake.

“The pleasure is all mine,” Geralt murmurs and takes his hand.  He does his best to not let the touch linger, but it’s been over a month since he’s been close enough to touch his bard.  The bard.  That he would like to be his but Jaskier needs to agree to it first.

Jaskier is the first to let go.  “Well, now that you’ve met, is there anything else?”

“Just wondering what it is about this bard that…enamored you so.”

“Ah, well, this bard seems to have found himself in a rather unique situation.”  Stregobor says brightly.

“Oh?”

“Yes, he seems to be under the continued and rather pervasive effects of djinn magic.”

Fuck.

He needs to get Jaskier out of here.  Judging by the way Jaskier is eyeing him, he agrees.

*

Somehow, Jaskier is able to stumble his way into the good graces of the dwarves and then down the mountain with them.

He tries very hard not to think about what happened.  Instead, he talks with the dwarves, collecting their stories.  Then, he has the bright idea to travel back to where it all started for him.  To where he first had an inkling that maybe something was lacking in the world.

He goes back to Posada.  It does not go how he expects.  He gets bard-napped instead.

It goes like this.  He’s travelling along the southern edge of the Dol Blathanna mountain range- though it’s less ‘mountain’ and more ‘rolling hills with high plateaus’- when a group of Elves surround him and tell him in no uncertain terms that his presence has been requested by Filavandrel, king of the Elves.

He graciously accepts the invite, though he thinks he wouldn’t have been able to say ‘no’ anyway.  He also realizes on the way that it’s been over a month since the dragon mountains and he hasn’t contacted Yennefer for his next dose of potion.

Shit.

Surreptitiously, he opens the xenovox in his pocket and talks loudly about how lovely Dol Blathanna is at this time of year and how nice it is to have fans of his work even among the Elves.  The xenovox remains silent and he can only hope that Yennefer has received his message.

Luckily for him, she does.  She arrives just as one of the Elves smashes his lute, ranting about how it’s of inferior quality and unworthy of talent such as his.  He sheds a tear over his most faithful companion of six years, ten months, one week, and five days.  Not that he was counting or anything.

She arrives just in time to stop another Elf from slipping off his smallclothes- they’d already stripped him of his doublet, trousers, and chemise- and shoves a potion into his hands.  He gulps it down.  The affect is almost instantaneous.  The Elves collectively shudder and the one with their hands in his pants sheepishly withdraws them.

Thank the gods.

In apology for his broken lute, and disrobing him without his consent, Filavandrel bestows upon him his own lute as a gift.  It’s beautiful.

Yennefer escorts him back to Posada before taking her leave of him.  “I’m close to unraveling it,” she tells him before she disappears through a portal.  “A few more months at most.”

Two weeks later he runs into another mage, this one significantly less pretty than the one that just left his company, who immediately squirrels him away in a tower in the middle of bumfuck nowhere.  He feels a bit like he’s in a fairytale.  Maybe he should grow his hair out.

The mage also takes his xenovox so he can’t contact his favorite sorceress for help.  He hopes that in two weeks she notices he hasn’t called for his next dose on time and comes to look for him.

He doesn’t have to wait quite that long.  Someone does come for him.  It’s not who he expects.  The relief and joy he feels at seeing that white-haired head whole and hale is immense.  Those emotions are second only to the hope he feels that Geralt is here to rescue him from this situation.

The bastard leaves him there instead.  Well, then, he’ll just have to rescue himself.

That is not what happens.  Jaskier isn’t even sure why he’s surprised by that anymore.

*

Geralt hates to do it, but he has to leave Jaskier with the mage.  He can’t quite justify pushing the idea that the bard needs to leave with him without arousing suspicion.  He’ll gather supplies and come back early in the morning.

Considering the dozen or so men clutching weapons that greet him at the base of the tower the next day he thinks he should have tried harder yesterday.

“He knew you’d come.”  The man tells him.

“Where’s Stregobor?”  Geralt unsheathes his steel blade.

One of the men aims a crossbow at him as the man foremost of the group tells him leave or die.  It’s not a hard choice.  He’s not leaving without his bard.  He tells the man as much.

The one with the crossbow shoots at him and he parries it with his sword.  It’s a bloodbath from there, though probably not in how they’d been expecting.  Geralt cleaves his way through the men.  They’re trained.  But he’s trained better.  Much better.

After the last man dies, he makes his way to Stregobor’s tower.  He’s trying to figure out a way to get in when a portal opens next to him and spits out Yennefer.

He’s impressed.  “Good timing.”

“Well, yes, of course.”  She smooths out her skirts.  “Need some help getting in?”

“He has Jaskier.”

She nods.  “I thought something was wrong when he didn’t contact me for his dose on time again.”

Again?  He’ll unpack that later.  “Can you get me in?”

“I can.  Just give me a moment.”  She holds up her hands.  “He’ll know you’re coming.”

Geralt grins fiercely.  “Good.”

She chants in Elder and the illusion peels its way back revealing the door from yesterday.  After a moment, that swings open as well.  “Go.  I’ll join you once I break the enchantment completely.”

Geralt doesn’t hesitate.  He stomps his way through the corridors until he catches the scent of summer.  He makes his way toward where it’s strongest.

He bursts into a bedroom where Jaskier sits tied to a chair, Stregobor’s hand flung out towards him.  “Careful, witcher, or this boy will die.”

Geralt looks to where Jaskier sits, wide-eyed, grunts and decides he is done with it all.  He flings is sword straight into Stregobor’s throat, cutting off his ability to cast any last second spells as well as killing him almost instantly.  It’s almost poetic, really.

He looks back to Jaskier who’s staring at the body of the dead mage.  “Well, that was rather anticlimactic.”

“Hm,” he says before setting to untying the bard.

“You came back for me.”  Jaskier sounds a little disbelieving.

“I did,” he agrees.  He takes one of the bard’s hands and helps him to his feet.

Jaskier looks down at his feet before he mumbles, “I didn’t think you would.”

Geralt frowns at him.  “Of course I would.  I’ll always come for you.”

The bard looks back up at him, clearly surprised.  “I thought, after the mountain…”

Ah, yes, well…”I’m sorry, Jaskier.  What I said up there…I didn’t mean it.”

“Then why did you say it?”

And here it is.  The moment Geralt has been looking for ever since he realized that his feelings were true.  “Because I need you, even though I didn’t want to admit it.  Every time I’m near you, I find myself saying more in five minutes than I’ve said in weeks.” 

He takes a deep breath.  “You make me feel things I never thought I could before.  You make me want to open up and embrace the good in a world I thought only contained darkness.  I tried to push you away because of it but,” he shuts his eyes and gently squeezes the hand he’s still holding.  “I’m in love with you,” he breathes out.

Silence.  He opens his eyes.

Jaskier is staring at him, frozen.  This is not what he was expecting from the bard.  “Jaskier?”

“Do you mean it?”  The bard chokes out.

Geralt frowns at him.  “Of course, I mean it.”

“How’s my singing?”

“What?”

The bard pulls away from him and puts his hands on his hips.  “How’s my singing?”

Ah.  Geralt smirks at him.  “It’s like ordering a pie and finding it has no filling.”

Jaskier’s eyes widen in shock and for moment all seems capable of doing is making offended bard noises.  He shakes a finger at Geralt.  “You need a nap!”

Geralt gently captures the finger with his hand.  “I have trouble sleeping.  Might need some help with that.”  He takes another step into Jaskier’s space.  “Interested?”

“Oh, ah, well.”  Jaskier dithers.  “I guess I could help in some small way.  Perhaps.”

“I’m sure you could,” Geralt says.  He moves is mouth close to the bard’s ear.  “And it isn’t small.”  He can feel the blush that takes over Jaskier’s face at that.  He pulls back to look at the bard’s face.  “Jaskier.”

“Geralt.”

He takes the bard’s chin in his fingers resting his thumb dangerously close to the bard’s lower lip.  “Can I kiss you?”

“Say it again.”

“Your singing is like a filling-less pie.”

Jaskier smacks him on the shoulder but doesn’t pull away.  “That’s not what I meant.”

Geralt lets himself smile at the bard.  “I love you.”  He leans in a little closer but stops short of making contact.  This has to be Jaskier’s choice.

Jaskier smiles back at him.  “I love you, too,” he says before finally closing the distance between them.  Because it is Jaskier, it quickly goes from soft and loving to deep and dirty.  Geralt is not complaining.

He lifts the bard into his arms and carries him the few paces to the bed.  He drops the other man onto the plush mattress and climbs on top of him, immediately going for a spot under his ear.

“Uh, Geralt?  Aren’t you forgetting something?”  Jaskier pants.

“Hm?”

Elegantly long-fingered hands push at his shoulders.  “Geralt!  We are not having sex in the same room as a dead body!”

Oh, right.  He turns to the corpse on the floor and casts Igni at it.  “That’s even worse,” Jaskier screeches.

Geralt winces.  That had been right in his ear.

“Oh, good, looks like I don’t have to finish breaking the curse-wish after all,” comes an unwelcome voice from the door.

They both turn their heads to look at the sorceress.  “What?”

She waves a hand airily, vanishing the burning body, along with the smell, from the floor.  “True Love’s kiss and all that.”

“That’s actually a thing?”  Surprisingly, it’s Jaskier that looks disbelieving of this.

Yennefer shrugs.  “Sort of?  I could go into the complicated nuances of true affection through adversity and their properties as applied to curse-breaking, but the term ‘true love’ is easier.”

They both continue to stare at her.  Geralt may be more in the ‘glaring’ category.

“I’ll just leave you to it then, shall I?”  She leaves.

Thank the gods.  Geralt goes back to sucking a mark onto his bard’s neck.  And oh, he can say that now.  Jaskier agreed to it.

“What?”  He hears Jaskier mumble.

Oops, he hadn’t meant to say that out loud.  “Nothing,” he says, placing a kiss to the underside of the bards’ jaw before going back to his lips.  “I love you.”

“I love you, too.”  Jaskier replies immediately.

For a while after that, the room is filled with gasps and moans.  It isn’t until Geralt’s got Jaskier down to just his smallclothes that the bard says, “I wonder what she did with the body.”

Geralt pulls back, frowns at him, and sticks his hand down the front of Jaskier’s pants.

“Never mind,” the bard gasps out.  “I don’t care.  Oh, keep doing that.”

Geralt keeps doing that.  He keeps doing whatever makes the bard under his hands gasp and moan until they’re both slick with sweat and other fluids.  At some point, a bottle of oil mysteriously appears next to his hand where it’s braced next to Jaskier’s head.  He makes liberal use of it to the enthusiastic approval of his bard.

Much later, they’re both covered in even more sweat and fluids.  He’s on his back, the bard tucked up against his side.

“Geralt?”

“Hm?”  He starting to fall asleep.

“I’m really glad I found that djinn.”

“Me too,” he murmurs.

There’s a moment of silence before Jaskier calls his name again.  “What is it?”

“I think I might have accidentally made myself immortal.”

“What?!”