Chapter Text
Jaskier heads to the coast.
He clambers down the mountain, alone and on shaking legs and he supposes it's life's blessing to him that he doesn't tumble over the edge of a ravine—even if he wishes that he would, at times.
But dying here or now won't be any good. There is more to his life than Geralt of fucking Rivia, even if the tears in his eyes and the emptiness in his chest make it seem otherwise.
Heartbreak is only a temporary affliction, he tells himself.
It takes him two days to reach the first hamlet—or maybe it is four days, time is a bit iffy at the moment with the daze of heartbreak in his head and the listlessness of a life wasted on an unrequited love dragging his feet. He buys himself bread with the last of his coin and then he is on his way again. He won't stop here, at the first sign of civilization off of that damned mountain, because he is certain everyone else will.
He trudges along with heavy feet and an even heavier heart until he reaches Yspaden. It’s big enough a city he is unlikely to run into anyone he knows and he’ll admit that he is desperate for any horrible bed and watered down stew that’s sure to be on offer here.
He finds the workers’ quarters of the city, for he loves the enthusiasm the working-class crowd has for a bard that keeps the tavern from breaking out into a brawl. It took him traveling the Continent to realize that because they don’t have the means to allow themselves luxuries, that the adventures in a bard’s song is the only luxury they are able to afford. So while he might make more coin playing at the events of the upper-class, he much prefers kindness over riches.
Especially now.
Because while he might not be able to comfort himself, at least he is able to comfort others. For now, that’ll have to be enough.
He doesn’t expect to freeze in the doorway of the tavern, though. Reminded all of a sudden that the last time—the last dozen times, at least—he’s been in one has been with Geralt.
Sharing food, rooms, even beds. Surely if that isn’t friendship—love—than at least it is some sort of comradery?
If life could give me one blessing, it would be to take you off my hands!
The words echo through his head in the places where it used to be melodies of songs waiting to be sung. And perhaps for the first time since being thrown away like a dirty rag that’s done its job he feels something other than all-consuming numbness.
Here, in the doorway of a tavern his feelings finally catch up with him and he’s overcome by an onslaught of emotions brought on as sudden as a Summer’s storm—and just as vicious. For suddenly, his broken heart feels too heavy in his chest and heartache rolls through him like rumbling thunder. He feels the tears, like rain, prickling his eyes and almost in a panic he wonders if this is the place he will break down because he can’t stop himself. Can’t stop feeling and if someone would just—
A harsh shoulder connects with his, making him stumble forward. He catches himself—only just—and blinks once, twice, thrice to get the tears out of his eyes. His heart still feels like it’s about to burst and his hands still shake but at least he’s not about to break out into tears anymore.
Probably.
He turns to find a burly man looking at him with an apologetic gleam in his eyes. “Didn’t see ya there,” he offers.
“Ah, no I offer you my apologies dear Sir,” Jaskier says and waves his hand in the air, to distract from the fact his words are strained and his voice trembles just the tiniest bit around the edges. “I shouldn’t have been lingering in the doorway as I was.”
The man frowns for a moment at the assault of words and then he seems to catch sight of Jaskier’s lute. “Are you a bard?” he asks and enthusiasm is clear in his voice.
While normally, Jaskier would share the enthusiasm now he can’t bring himself to care. No, I’m a fool he wants to say. For if he’d been a true bard surely he would have realized that his story is not a romance. But it had taken him—the fool—twenty-two years and harsh, cutting words to see it for the tragedy it truly is.
Or a comedy, but he supposes that depends on the spectator.
But instead he manages to pull himself together, puts on a showy smile and promises he’s not just any bard.
He gets himself a room, a free bowl of stew and has the whole tavern hollering along to toss a coin only fifteen minutes after he starts playing.
No-one needs to know he spends the night crying in his pillow.
---
He’s slowly followed the coastline down south for a month when he finally admits to himself that some tranquil waves and salty air aren’t going to carry his heartache with them and away from him. That no amount of autumn sun on his head and sand between his toes is going to replace the heaviness he now carries in his chest.
Heartbreak, he’s found, is not a linear thing. Granted, he’s quite certain he’s past the lowest point for he can’t believe it gets any worse than falling down to his knees and sobbing tears of devastation at the first sight of the ocean. Since then, he’s had bad and not-quite-as-bad days. No day is truly good, for he still wakes up and goes to sleep thinking of and missing Geralt, his heart crying where his tears have stopped.
Every song he sings and melody he plays is a lament and while it is therapeutic it is also a constant reminder of his devastating predicament. To truly move on, he needs something to take his mind off of Geralt and traveling on his own simply isn’t going to do that.
So when one morning he wakes to see dolphins surfing the waves and his first instinct is to tell Geralt he decides it’s perhaps for the best if he stops at Oxenfurt before going to Lettenhove.
Winter is coming after all, and a season spent with old friends roaming familiar corridors and perhaps teaching some guest classes are sure to take his mind off of Geralt.
---
It’s the end of Autumn when he arrives at Oxenfurt and finds he’s only partly right in his assumption it’ll take his mind off of Geralt. For everyone knows who he is and even more so, everyone is aware who he is known to travel with.
It is not just old professors that used to teach Jaskier—who by now are well past retirement age but who refuse to stop teaching—and the younger teachers who used to study together with Jaskier. No, it’s also those who he didn’t study with and even students themselves that know and everyone has questions.
Questions they feel free to ask him. It is the Liberal Arts after all, and that doesn’t just apply to the subjects studied at the Academy.
But Jaskier is nothing if not eloquent and he easily weaves a tale of not wanting to spend yet another winter sleeping out in the cold and missing the luxuries of Oxenfurt. Everyone gobbles it up easily as Jaskier tells his story with a wide grin to cover up his broken heart.
And so gossip spreads, as it always does and after a few days the whole of Oxenfurt seems to know Jaskier’s story. It allows him to pretend all is fine even if it really, really isn’t.
But that, no-one needs to know and it are only the walls of his rooms that bear witness to his grief and his continuous attempt to piece his heart back together through sad ballads and sheer will.
Well, his bedroom walls and Ellen Daven, it seems.
She finds him drinking in a lone corner four days after his arrival, hiding from sight because tonight Jaskier doesn’t want to tell stories of his travels with the White Wolf.
She slides onto the booth with him and bumps her shoulder against his with a fond smile. "If it isn't Julian Pankratz, returned to Oxenfurt at least."
"Ellen,” he greets her with a soft smile of his own and his heart aches at seeing a familiar face. She’s not Essi, but he’s still fond of his best friend’s older sister and hers is the only presence he’ll entertain tonight. “How have you been?”
“Well enough. Even if teaching here sometimes makes me want to pull my hair out," Ellen says with a chuckle, although they both know she loves teaching. "And you? What brings you back here?”
Jaskier almost winces at hearing the familiar question again. But from Ellen, he appreciates it. For she must've heard the rumors—as all gossip eventually reaches Ellen Daven—and decided to check whether it's true.
Jaskier just isn't certain if he is ready to tell the truth.
“Winter,” he says, because it's not really a lie and trying to be funny is better than melancholic. But his attempted joke falls terribly flat now that he’s talking to someone who actually knows him beyond just his name.
Ellen regards him silently for a moment. Then she seems to come to a decision as she hums and brushes a strand of her dirty blonde hair behind her ear. “And you will join your Witcher again come Spring?” she asks and while her tone is light and almost curious, the look in her eyes clearly says she hasn’t fallen for his excuse.
Jaskier sighs, deep and long as if he’s trying to push out all of his heartache. He stares into his unfortunately empty cup and for a moment the world disappears around him. Because he knows he won’t join Geralt on his Path after the Winter. He knows, for he’s well past lying to himself—he’s done that long enough. But there is a vast difference between knowing something, even deep down in your soul, and actually saying it out loud.
Making it real.
“No,” he whispers, the word like sawdust in his mouth and it trembles as much as his fingers do around his cup. For a moment he feels as if he can’t breathe, cotton in his chest and stones in his stomach and the rest of his body numb as the one word echoes through his mind and empty heart.
No, no, no
It’s Ellen’s soft “oh Jaskier,” that pulls him back to reality.
He glances at her, expecting pity but all he sees is a sad understanding. He supposes, heartbreak is something everyone understands.
Ellen doesn’t speak, there’s no words she can offer Jaskier that’ll make him feel better, but she does slide closer to him and pulls him against her side.
Jaskier doesn’t know how long they sit in the dark corner of an otherwise bustling tavern. But he does know that Ellen’s hand around his shoulder is a comfort, the vodka she orders an escape and the fact she pretends not to see the tears in his eyes a kindness he didn't know he so desperately needed.
---
Life at Oxenfurt is easy, if a tad boring compared to traveling the Continent with a Witcher.
But boring is good, boring is different because it is the opposite of the life Jaskier’s been living for the past two decades. In a nutshell, boring is not going to remind him of Geralt at every inn he plays at or every camp he now has to set on his own.
Right now, boring is a safe environment to heal.
It’s a routine. A life full of teaching, composing and hanging out with friends and acquaintances in taverns drinking more than they should and holding mock-competitions to test their skills and have a good laugh at the same time.
Traveling, he’d almost forgotten how much fun those nights had always been and here at Oxenfurt, he knows he doesn’t have to spend a single evening by his lonesome self if he doesn’t wish to. For here, there are always people out and about, enjoying drinks or song or both and always willing to let another join them.
But not all is perfection and tranquility in the marble halls of Oxenfurt. It never has been, of course, but it doesn’t take long for Jaskier to notice a heaviness in the air. A cautiousness to some of the more subdued, quiet whispers going around. Most reach his ears, of course. He makes certain that they do but the more he hears, the more they worry him.
Nilfgaard is up to something, and rumor has it that this something is war.
His curiosity getting the best of him, he brings it up to Ellen on their next weekly outing.
“Have you heard the rumors about Nilfgaard?” he asks bluntly. They are in his rooms tonight, as per his request, so he knows he doesn’t need to whisper or sugar-coat things to appease a stray listening ear.
Ellen grimaces and takes a big gulp of her wine before she says: “if that is tonight’s topic I hope you have something stronger than this around.”
Jaskier stands to retrieve a bottle of vodka and two small glasses from one of the shelves. “I take that as a yes.”
“You’d have to be deaf to not have heard.”
“You think they’re true?” Jaskier asks, as he sits down and fills a glass of vodka for each of them.
Ellen takes the glass, swirls the clear liquid around in it for a moment and then, without any doubt, says: “I do.”
Jaskier hums and, because he’s not Geralt and can actually use his vocabulary, adds: “suppose if it were just one you could argue it, but it’s everywhere.”
“It is,” Ellen nods but then she shrugs, waving a hand in the air with a heavy sigh. “I don’t know too much about it, though. I’m more worried about Essi at the moment.”
The mention of his best friend has Jaskier frowning. He knows Essi is prone to get herself into trouble, it’s why they get along so well. But for Ellen to actually express worry somehow feels different. “What did Essi get herself into?"
"I’m not sure.” Ellen takes a large sip of her vodka and raises her eyes to Jaskier. “She doesn’t write as much as she used to, and with the war looming... I fear she might have gotten herself into something.”
For a moment, Jaskier wonders what Essi could’ve gotten herself into. Last he heard, she was in Cintra but that was before the whole mountain debacle. She had written she’d stay a while, but he can’t be certain if she’s still there or if she’s moved on to another place by now. Certainly, any trouble she’s gotten herself into isn’t related to a war that’s not even happening at the moment. “Essi might get in trouble every now and then but that’s mostly with scorned lovers.”
Ellen huffs. “I suppose you’re right,” she says and finishes her drink with slightly more relaxed shoulders. “I just worry.”
“Trust me, knowing Essi the worst she’s getting herself into is heartbreak,” he says, giving Ellen a re-assuring smile even if his own heart seems to clench in his chest at the reminder of his own heartbreak.
Ellen gives Jaskier a small smile in return and reaches for the bottle of vodka to refill her now empty glass. “I hope so.”
---
The new year rolls around with a big party.
When the clock strikes midnight, Jaskier vows to leave the remains of his heartache behind in the old year.
He’s not certain it will work, you can’t just tell your emotions to stay away. But it’s getting easier every week and if he just tells himself often enough that Geralt of Rivia is a thing of the past—as are the emotions attached to him—he might just start believing it.
That doesn’t stop him from getting completely and utterly drunk and he spends the first day of his new, reborn year puking his guts out and feeling overall very terrible for himself. But, despite his whining to no-one but himself, he lives and the next day he’s back to giving lectures.
He finds that he quite enjoys teaching. It’s not something he’ll ever permanently do for his patience isn’t that great. But for a few months, it’s a delight to share his knowledge with eager students that seem to soak it all up like sponges. Most of them, anyway.
Some struggle a bit more and they usually linger at the end of class to ask additional questions which Jaskier happily answers.
But one day, the hall empties faster than usual. Everyone scurrying out in a rush making Jaskier wonder what’s going on. It all makes sense, though, when he looks up towards the back of the lecture hall, where only one person remains.
Sigismund Dijkstra, head of the Redanian Secret Service.
Well, Jaskier thinks and resists the urge to either sigh or scream, fuck me sideways.
He watches the imposing figure of a man stand up and walk down the stairs of the lecture hall, steps slow and deliberate almost as if he’s showing off.
Jaskier isn’t sure if it’s a good idea to make the man go through the effort to come to him, but he needs the time to think. Come up with a plan of attack while at the same time trying to think what the fuck the man could possibly want from him.
In the end, he says: "I hope you weren't attempting to be subtle Sigismund." It’s not flippant, per say. Overly familiar, perhaps and a jest for sure. Because Jaskier isn’t scared of the likes of Dijkstra—and he really hopes he shouldn’t be.
Dijkstra comes to a halt in front of the little teacher stand, spreads his arms wide and with amusement in his voice offers: "Whatever do you mean? I've always wanted to learn about the finer details on how to get the most out of ones lute.”
Jaskier snorts. “For the head of the Secret Service, that’s a terribly lie.”
Dijkstra’s eyes twinkle at those words and he places his arms onto the stand, leaning heavily onto it and bending his body towards Jaskier. “You would know,” he gives a small nod and continues, lips curving up in the tiniest of smirks: “you’re terribly good at it after all. Lying.”
“Excuse me?”
“It’s only because of my own sources that I know that Witcher of yours sent you away,” Dijkstra says, pauses for a moment to let the words hang in the air.
To let them sting Jaskier, stab him right through the heart and he can only stand rooted to the ground. No reply is on his tongue, no defense.
He’s not sure what exactly the intention of the other’s words were, but fuck they hurt.
“I’ll admit I was sorry to hear the news, after twenty-two years of devotion… you deserve more respect than that, Julian.” Dijkstra continues and he sounds sorry, sounds sincere but Jaskier isn’t stupid.
He might be hurting but he guesses that that is exactly what Dijkstra wants. Because he’s trying to drag him into a game he doesn’t want to play.
Jaskier narrows his eyes at the man and demands: “What do you want from me?”
Dijkstra raises his hands. “Ah, my apologies. I meant no offence, truly. In fact, I meant it as a compliment. The skill to weave lies so easily and such loyalty… the Service could use that.”
There’s an offer in those words and Jaskier feels like kicking himself.
He could’ve known that this is what the Redanian Secret Service would want from him.
A spy.
He resists the urge to laugh at that joke. "I'm a bard, Sigismund."
"One with ears and eyes, no?" Dijkstra counters easily.
"Ears and eyes of my own." Jaskier’s statement is firm, and although he’s certain the other wouldn’t dare hurt him here, he’s still grateful for the desk between them.
Dijkstra shakes his head. "War is upon us, it’s for the best that you realize that as soon as possible. I’m offering you the chance to protect those dear to you.”
For a short, short moment Jaskier considers it. Traveling, singing in taverns he would be good at being a spy. He could pick up rumors from a dark, dingey corner of the local watering hole as easily as he could from the banquet tables in the dining halls of the rich. But to be a spy, in a upcoming war that so far is nothing but a rumor?
Don’t get involved.
Unbidden, Geralt’s words come to mind. And while Geralt might not have followed his own words of advice very well, Jaskier decides in that moment that he will.
“Like I said, I'm a bard, not a spy. This isn't my war."
Dijkstra sighs in resignation. “All right,” he says and as he’s on his way out of the lecture hall, he offers Jaskier some parting words: "But just keep in mind, this will be everyone's war."
---
By the time February rolls around, Jaskier is getting restless.
Suddenly, boring and routine aren’t a safe environment anymore. For now that the novelty of it has worn off and routine becomes a true, automatic routine all it provides is too much time to think.
It’s never any good when his thoughts can run amok, especially when he’s running away from something. And he is, isn’t he? He can pretend he’s at Oxenfurt to teach and see old friends but that doesn’t change the truth.
So now he finds that marble halls remind him only of what he doesn’t have anymore. Evenings spent drinking and singing in taverns leave an emptiness inside his chest because while it’s company, it’s not the right one.
It’s not Geralt.
It’s not that he feels that the past two decades of his life were wasted. All the travelling, all the adventures and all the time he did get to spend with Geralt… He just knows he’ll look back on those years with fondness. Not now, perhaps. But someday he will.
For now, thinking of time spent with Geralt just hurts because it reminds Jaskier of how much he misses him.
He thinks that, perhaps, it’s time to move on. Find comfort in Lettenhove, because he might not have Geralt at least he has his family.
Having made up his mind, Jaskier prepares to leave. Three weeks, the tells everyone. Because that’s when the last of his lectures finishes.
A few days after his decision, news about the battle of Marnadal reaches Oxenfurt.
A shocked hush falls over the university and when Jaskier hears it, he mourns. He gets drunk alone in his room, toasts the memory of Eist Tuirseach and prays to Melitele that at least Cintra will stand, that little Ciri stays safe. For Geralt might not have cared about his Child Surprise, Jaskier has done him the unasked and unknown service of keeping an eye on her. Playing at birthday banquets, first for Pavetta and then for Ciri herself, provided the ideal opportunity to make sure the little girl was growing up in what would one day be a fine young lady. Because even at twelve, Ciri was smart and sharp. Just like her mother and grandmother.
He hopes that now, at least, Geralt will honor destiny and seek to protect the Lion Cub of Cintra.
But it is not the end of the bad news.
Not a week later, they hear that Cintra has fallen at the hands of Nilfgaard. Although, if Jaskier is to believe the rumors, slaughter is a better fitting word.
He thinks of Dijkstra’s words as heartache makes way for a cold worry that seems to settle deep within him.
This will be everyone’s war
Jaskier thinks of Cintra, of the fact he hasn’t heard Ciri hasn’t made it, thinks of Essi who’d written she was in Cintra and he hopes. Hopes that no news of Ciri’s demise must mean she made it out, hopes Essi got bored months before and moved on to other pastures.
And above all, he hopes Dijkstra is wrong.
---
He departs from Oxenfurt early one foggy morning, with only Ellen there to wish him goodbye.
“Be careful out there, okay?” she says as she hugs him close to her chest, her voice soft and her hands trembling.
Jaskier wonders if she’s got Essi on her mind, projecting her worry about her little sister onto Jaskier now that she’s got to wave him off.
He wouldn’t be surprised.
It is his own family he is rushing to see, after all.
He will admit that the prospect of war has gotten more realistic than he’d ever dared think. With Cintra fallen and a barrage of messages and rumors flying through Oxenfurt it’s dawned upon everyone that this might just be as bad as it seems.
So Jaskier rushes to reach his childhood home, even if he isn’t sure what anyone would want in Kerack, let alone their hamlet of Lettenhove—his father would disagree, but if a duck is a duck when it looks, swims and quacks like it then Lettenhove is most certainly a hamlet. But even if he can't imagine what anyone would want in their tiny coastal town, there is a dark worry rolling in his gut. A persistent trepidation flowing through his veins that pushes him to travel through thick forests and windy beaches at a pace that would most likely even impress Geralt.
All the while he tells himself that it’s just a precaution, this pace of travel. For they are fine, his family.
They are safe.
They have to be.
---
He finds devastation.
He finds destruction.
He finds what happens to a town when war comes knocking on the door at midnight, unannounced and unexpected.
But even if it had been known, even if they had been prepared Jaskier knows that war finding Lettenhove would have always led to this. There’d only ever been a dozen or so that could wield a sword—he himself included in that number—and as he walks through what once was his hometown, he prays that at least most of them managed to flee.
He looks as much as the ghost that the whole town has now become. His skin pale, his hands trembling as he walks slowly, numbly. One step in front of the other, passing by the collapsed tavern where he learned to play his lute. The baker, whose pastries were Jaskier’s treats on special days, and the house of the farmer, whose daughter was the first girl Jaskier had ever kissed.
So many memories, so many feelings swirl through him, so much devastation growing in his heart and grief weighing his mind that by the time he reaches the Pankratz mansion, fear has made its home inside his body. A numbing terror at the thought of what he might find within the walls of his childhood home.
But the numbness doesn’t stop his heart from beating loudly in his chest, the sound almost deafening in his own ears, as he pushes open the front door with a slightly trembling hand.
The door creaks as it opens. It feels like an eternity before Jaskier can see into the hallway and his breath is stuck in his lungs. He can’t breathe, static in his ears and lead in his limbs because what if, what if, what if–
A shuddering breath fills the air as Jaskier’s knees buckle under him, sending him to the ground with a dull thud.
The hallway is empty.
There is no blood on the walls, no corpses on the marble floor—thank Melitele.
He drags himself up from the ground and enters the house.
“Hello?” he calls and despite the softness of his voice it seems to echo off the walls, up the stairs and through the emptiness of the mansion.
He briefly closes his eyes and is brought back to all the times he’s visited during his years traveling the Continent as bard. Julian, he hears his mother’s delighted voice and her quick steps tapping against the floor as she rushes to envelop him in her embrace, nearly suffocating him while his father stands chuckling in the doorway of his study. If he listens closely enough, he can almost hear a door slamming open upstairs as Josephine comes rushing down, a grin on her face as she jokes that they’ll have those damned sweet potatoes again now that he is here. Those sweet potatoes, his favorite, he can almost taste them. Can almost smell his mother’s perfume, feel his father’s beard against the side of his head, hear Josephine’s laughs that always remind him of a happy, snorting pig.
Almost.
But they aren’t there, his family.
Not in the hallway, nor in any other ransacked room that Jaskier enters. For the house is empty, save a lifetime of once happy memories. A relief and a curse all in one.
At the top of the stairs, Jaskier turns to look out of the floor-to-ceiling window that offers a view of Lettenhove. He remembers standing here as a kid, watching the bustling town laid out in front of the mansion and dreaming of exploring far beyond its borders.
He’s gotten just that, right until this moment where he wishes for nothing more than to be embraced by the simplicity of life in Lettenhove again. With its farmers, bakers and butchers and tiny tavern where everyone knows each other.
Small, unimportant and innocent Lettenhove which didn’t deserve this fate.
But war doesn’t care who its victims are and here, watching over the town that loved a little viscount boy that wanted to be a bard, Jaskier knows there are many who have fallen victim.
For the fact he hasn’t seen the dead, doesn’t mean they aren’t there. In the ransacked town, under rubble, in stables and around corners where Jaskier hasn’t looked—where he won’t look.
He stands watching the destruction until the sun has long set, his cheeks wet with tears and thinking he should sing in remembrance and honor of those who lost their lives, to the homes they—he—lost.
But his music feels lost to him.
So he just stands, feeling emptier and emptier until his body, mind and soul feel exhausted and he’s forced to turn away.
He beds down in front of a small fire he lights in the fireplace in the dining hall.
Next to the family heirloom display cabinet that used to hold their fine china.
The fine china that they ate from during birthdays and other celebrations when Jaskier was younger, and which his mother made sure was on the table whenever he visited when he was older for whenever he did, that was the celebration. The fine china with its hand-painted dandelions circling the edges like the flower crowns his sister used to weave. The fragile fine china, that now lays on the cold floor, in shatters. Never to be used or put back together again after being destroyed by this dredged war.
The thought of the lives ruined—his family’s lives ruined—by this war haunts him throughout the night, the fire unable to offer him any comfort or warmth and the light of the flames doesn’t keep the nightmares away.
And so he sleeps alone and cold in the ruins of his childhood home. Dreaming of a burning town echoing with tormented screams. When he wakes, his cheeks are wet with tears and the blanket covering him feels like a layer of ashes.
He leaves Lettenhove that morning, feeling as broken as the china and unsure if he will ever return, for his home is no more.
---
He starts a desperate search for his family.
It takes many questions in dingy taverns offering more favors than he’d like but eventually, he finds them at the edge of a refugee camp just outside the walls of Vizima. They’re in rags that hang from bony figures, with sunken cheeks, pale skin and eyes that seem forever dimmed by the cruelty of war.
His parents.
He stumbles into their arms. His father’s hands tremble against his shoulder and his mother’s thin frame shakes as she cries tears of relief. And Jaskier closes his own eyes, lets his tears drip down his cheeks and he’s relieved, so relieved and he won’t let himself think how old and fragile his parents have gotten.
It doesn’t matter.
They are alive.
The reunion, however, is bittersweet.
Especially when Jaskier sees his parents’ new home.
“It’s not much,” his mother says with an almost apologetic wave around the small tent that barely fits the three of them. “But we’re grateful for all we can get.”
His mother looks out of place more than his father does. He’s always taken after her more, her free spirit and loving personality, her brightly colored dresses. All of which she has lost and Jaskier would fight Destiny itself to give his parents back their home, their comforts and their spark.
But all he can offer them is a tight smile and the promise that “I’ve slept in way worse conditions, ma. I’m just happy you’re both safe.”
His mother gives him a soft smile before she starts fussing about where Jaskier is going to sleep and then about what they are going to eat for dinner.
Jaskier has questions, so many questions, but he doesn’t get the chance to ask them.
At least, not until later that evening when is mother attempting to sow in front of a fire with the light quickly fading on the horizon and he’s sat next to his father on the other side.
It’s a good thing he’s sitting next to his father, he thinks. He’s had a dreadful feeling in his gut all afternoon and he doesn’t want to actually ask the question because he’s fearful of the answer he might receive.
But he has to know.
So he lowers his voice, hopes it’s soft enough so his mother won’t hear it over the noise all around them and the crackling fire in front of them, and dares to ask his father: “what happened?”
His father sighs, deep and long and full of sorrow. His father’s voice has always been steady and comforting, the voice of a strong man with a gentle heart. But now it wavers, a mere whisper as his father tries to hold it together as he speaks of how Nilfgaard invaded in the dead of night. How they only barely managed to run down the stairs, out the patio doors and through the gardens all the way down to the wide steps of the dock, to their little rowing boat. How they saw only a few other families had had the same idea as them, to flee to their boats. How they drifted at sea, cold and wet and crying until they were enough of a distance away that they dared to set foot ashore again.
Jaskier listens in utter silence, his hands clenched into fists and he bites his lip in an attempt to keep himself from crying at it all.
But his main question hasn’t been answered by what his father’s told him and the dark, foreboding feeling in his gut has only gotten worse. For he hasn’t heard a single word about her yet.
His little sister.
“And Josephine?” he asks, a mere whisper he wonders his father even hears.
But his father has heard. Freezes on the log next to him and when Jaskier dares to glance he sees his father’s face set in a heartbroken frown, skin as pale as a sheet and eyes brimmed with tears. “Nilfgaard, they shot–” his father starts and breaks off with a sob disguised as a shuddered breath. He swallows and looks up into the flame as he brokenly whispers: “arrows.”
Her
The unspoken word hangs heavy in the air.
In his chest, Jaskier is certain he can feel his already shattered heart breaking into more little pieces.
Sweet Josephine, his little sister… dead.
A mournful cry leaves his lips and he sobs, his whole body trembling under the onslaught of his anguish. He’s pulled against his father’s chest and just like when he was a little boy and their pet dog Rosie had passed away, he clenches fists in his father’s tunic and cries bitter, broken tears.
Only this time, his father is crying too.
On the other side of the fire, his mother has her face buried in the shirt she was mending.
---
The longer Jaskier spends with his parents at the refugee camp, the angrier he becomes.
By now, his heartbreak—Geralt—is nothing more than background noise. It’s there, but barely noticeable as Jaskier’s entire being has been taken over by the grief and devastation of having lost his sister, of having lost Lettenhove. It’s an encompassing feeling, like he’s in a cocoon of bubbling anger just waiting to burst free and release all those dark feelings onto the world.
It starts as thoughts of injustice, how all these people here in the refugee camp are innocent. How all those who have died are innocent, because farmers and innkeepers and all others who were just trying to make their lives work certainly didn’t deserve to die gruesome deaths at the hands of soldiers.
From there, it grows and grows until it feels like Jaskier’s whole body is buzzing with anger. Anger at Nilfgaard, at this war, at the world, for how can no-one care?
He tries to reign in his anger. But when there is nothing to do but walk around the camp and entertain the little ones with funny songs and comfort their parents with ballads promising better times ahead, it’s hard not to feel any sort of outrage at the situation.
That, and helplessness.
It isn’t until his mother is in one of her darker moods, sitting in front of the fire and staring at it with unseeing eyes as she whispers “if only we could’ve done something,” to herself that Jaskier has a revelation.
Or rather, his memory seems to work again.
This will be everyone’s war
Dijkstra’s foreboding words seem to ring in his ears, like a precognition. A foreshadowing which Jaskier had laughed off, ignored in favor of dwelling on his own heartbreak and now he finds himself sitting in the exact outcome of Dijkstra’s words.
But he also remembers the offer, the chance to protect those dear to him as Dijkstra had said. An offer to help influence the future.
Looking at his devastated parents, all the devastated people around him, thinking of Josephine, of Essi and Ciri, he wishes that it was the past he could change instead. But he’s no mage and even if he was he doubts that particular thing is within the realm of possibilities.
So he thinks that he will, instead, have to settle on influencing the future. Prevent things from getting any worse than they already are and the anger in his chest ignites at the thought of getting to pay back Nilfgaard while he’s at it.
That night, Jaskier doesn’t sleep as the magnitude of his decision dawns on him.
Leaving behind his parents to go fight in a war.
There is a warning, gruff voice at the back of his mind that sounds a lot like Geralt which says to not get involved.
He’d listened to it in Oxenfurt and he’s grateful for it, because that’s why he now finds himself here, was able to see his parents. But he also knows that now, the words simply don’t hold true anymore.
He is involved already, even if he didn’t chose to be. So now that he’s right in the middle of this war, he will stand up and do something. He’s never been one to watch from the sidelines at a safe distance, after all.
The next day, he spends as much time with his parents as he can. He goes around camp one last time, singing his songs and remembering all the faces that light up as he passes, if only temporarily.
“I love you, you know that right?” he tells his parents as they all prepare for bed.
“Julian?” his mother says his name carefully with a frown in reply, looking worried. “Is everything all right?”
“All fine,” he lies with a smile—his first of many more to follow.
That night, under the cover of darkness as the camp has descended into sleep, Jaskier slips away without saying goodbye, leaving only a small note on his pillow behind.
For some things a man simply must do, and they are often the things he doesn't tell his parents.