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autotragedywrites · 2 years ago

Text

An Alternate Perspective

We have a new entry to the Storyteller At Heart verse!! The year is 1240....

"You think you're safe, without a care... But here in Posada, you'd be wise to beware!" Jaskier sang as he spun about the room, lute in hand, trying to capture the attentions of the patrons at the strange, crooked inn he had come upon the night before. It had mysteriously gone quiet moments before, and he had taken it as a sign. It was his time to shine.

He continues his verses, fighting the tightness in his throat: they're loving you, they are, really! He tried to cheer himself on in the uncomfortable silence. The final line, and he had their attention, then, if the scowls and furrowed brows were anything to go by. "So that your lady may get an abortion!" He nearly shouted over the disapproving crowd, banging away on his instrument, aiming for a rousing finale.

"Abort yourself!" Echoed in his ears, a chorus of agreements and complaints, accompanied by a shower of stale bread.

Still better than the last one, he chides himself, not letting the sour atmosphere of the pub wear him down. It... wasn't his best work, sure, but they still gave him bread. It was stale, and god, more than a little moldy, but it was still bread.

Jaskier kneeled to gather the rolls strewn across the dusty wooden floorboards of Posada's one, lonely, leaning, tavern. This was a boring, stagnant, and altogether brown feeling sort of place. Something, though, had tickled the back of his mind. For some reason he felt like right now, this was the place to be. He couldn't put a finger on it, but it felt like the wind was pushing him here. He couldn't very well have left this morning with that itch left unscratched. Now, though, maybe it was time, he thought, dusting the floor grime off of what would likely be his dinner.

Someone kicked another piece of bread toward him, and when he looked up, his eyes landed not on the culprit, but on the startlingly large and dark figure across the room.

The man was sitting in the corner, taking up the whole corner, really, and clearly minding his own. At first, he was so still that he almost blended into the shadow; but an eye shine, a flash of gold, had caught Jaskier. It was like a string pulled taught; like whatever force pulling him here had boiled over.

Snatching a cup of sour wine from one of the keepers, he wove through the crowd - or what was left of it - towards the swordsman.

"Brooding in the corner like that... you didn't love my show, handsome?"

The cat was out of the bag, but he had to say it. If he tried to think too hard, he'd stutter, and he didn't want to fumble and miss his chance.

The man tucked a white hair under his cowl, but otherwise did not move, without looking up he said, "The road is tiresome."

Not impolitely, but honestly. And that voice, the rumble in it sent a shiver down his spine, almost as though he'd heard it before. It was nice, Jaskier decided.

"Oren for your thoughts?" He asked, with a small, hopeful, smile.

"No."

"Bread, then?" Jaskier reached out without thinking, pulling a loaf out of his pants.

"You've not seen a real monster, Bard." The man stood, and when he did, his hood fell back. "It shows." His hand lifted off the table and left behind a single coin. He quickly turned and walked away, grasping the two swords sheathed at his side.

"Y- You're the witcher- Geralt, Geralt of Rivia."

Jaskier said it louder than he meant to, and the crowd, which had oddly returned now that he'd stopped playing, heard. They washed the monster hunter away from him in a sea of demands and curses. He stared after them as if in a daze. His eyes drifted to the coin on the table, and he picked it up. He looked it over; it was plain, cold, and worn; virtually indistinguishable from any other. Today had very nearly started that way. It wouldn't end that way. He was supposed to be here.

He tossed the coin and caught it in midair with a flourish; it was an act of showmanship, entirely for himself. "Toss a coin..." He mumbled to himself, "I should use that."

Not an hour later, he was tailing Geralt, drunk on the idea of finding a purpose. He was borderline manic with it. He had a muse! A reason. The reason for singing, for writing, for wandering around the continent. This man and his golden eyes, his swords, sureness of his stead- there was an aura, a gravity, to him. Jaskier's story wasn't finished; perhaps it had barely begun being written, but Melitele be damned, he was ready to pick up the pen and start writing for someone else.

Jaskier had been wandering around all summer, sure he'd been on the road, but in terms of his life? He'd felt lost, as though he'd been marching off the trail, barely keeping time. In the back of his mind there was a whisper. He couldn't quite place it, but it was just enough to lead him. He'd traveled on and on, feeling as though he was barely keeping up with that thing he could not name, and watching as the coin he'd taken from Lettenhove slowly dwindled. Now he had hope again. He found a life to start entangling his own with- that was the hope at least. Though judging by the prolonged silence, it would be no easy task. Jaskier thought he was up to the challenge; he just had that feeling.

"I didn't invite you along." Geralt said, disrupting Jaskier from his thoughts.

"Oh," Jaskier cleared his throat, "I figured it was about time I saw a real monster."

For a long while, the witcher's only reply was a puff of breath from his nose as he lead his brown mare down the path. Then he spoke.

"You're not in luck then."

"I think I'll let destiny decide on that front." Jaskier replied, holding his chin up high. Surely, there was something out here, the villagers wouldn't waste their coin on a superstitious whim.

"Destiny is horseshit."

"And yet, here we are." Jaskier made a gesture to the field of crops they were approaching.

"Stay put." Geralt grumbled, pulling his swords off of his saddle bags.

"Oh, I think I'll be following you for a long time yet." Jaskier smiled.

"I was speaking to Roach," Geralt said, in a flat deadpan, stroking the horses mane with a gloved hand, avoiding Jaskier's eyes.

Jaskier's smiled broadened. "No you weren't."

Geralt said nothing, only turned with a huff, and walked sure of foot into the field of corn.

***

if you'd like, send this ficlet some love over on AO3, There, you can find all the other works in this series arranged nicely and neatly for your personal reading pleasure.

Much love!

#a storyteller at heart #an alternate perspective #witcher #witcher fic #witcher fanfic #geraskier #geraskier fic #four marks #posada #the witcher #tragedy writes #fic update #witcher au

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autotragedywrites · 2 years ago

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Geraskier, number 8, for the domestic ask meme?

I got a little carried away kind of lost the thread of this prompt, but here's 2K of pre-slash Geraskier!

8. going clothes shopping and trying on outfits for an event they’ll be attending together

“They’re just clothes, Jaskier,” Geralt says irritably, watching Jaskier retrieve the remains of his knapsack from the ichor-filled pond. The knapsack is shredded, brightly colored bits of clothes bobbing in the water.

“Just clothes?” Jaskier holds up his yellow doublet, which is splattered with black ichor, in dismay. “Geralt, this is every outfit I own! It’s all ruined!”

“Would you have preferred it to have gotten you?” Geralt jerks his chin at the dead kikimore, which is collapsed on the bank of the pond in a heap of limbs. It had been going for Jaskier when Geralt had thrown the knapsack at it to distract it. Kikimores don’t see well; he’d hoped the scent of Jaskier on the clothes would convince the beast it had snatched up an edible bard rather than a sack of cloth. The distraction had earned Geralt a precious few seconds to fetch his swords before the kikimore realized the deception and lunged for Jaskier again.

“Oh no,” Jaskier moans, pulling a sopping wet garment from the knapsack. Geralt can’t tell what color it used to be. “Fuck.”

“It’s just—”

“If you say it’s just a doublet, Geralt, I’m going to make you eat it.” Jaskier goes to bury his face in the ruined doublet then seems to think better of it. “This was the outfit I had custom-made for Prince Radovid’s birthday celebration next week.”

“You have other clothes.”

“This is the only one of my outfits not destroyed.” Jaskier spreads out his arms to show Geralt his light blue outfit. “This is two seasons out of date, Geralt! There’s a reason I only wear it when we’re in backwaters. Do you see these ruffles? Ruffles are considered terribly gauche nowadays. I can’t wear this to a prince’s birthday banquet! I’ll be laughed out of Redania, if not off the entire Continent.”

“You wouldn’t have worn anything to the banquet if you’d gotten torn apart by a kikimore,” Geralt can’t pretend to give a fuck about some ruined clothes, not when it could have been bits of his bard floating in the ichor-black water. Fripperies can be replaced, unlike Jaskier. “Anyway, there’s time to have something else made.”

“With what coin?” Jaskier demands, waving the ruined doublet around. “I spent most of my savings on this! I don’t have the funds to afford anything fine enough to wear to a banquet at the royal palace, especially not if it’s going to be a rush job.”

Geralt opens his mouth to reply, then is distracted by movement in the pond behind Jaskier. Fuck, how did he miss not one, but multiple kikimores? “Jaskier, get away from the water.”

“It’s no use,” Jaskier moans. “It’s all soaked anyway, what’s a little more water?”

“Jaskier!” Geralt lurches forward, dragging Jaskier back just as an adolescent kikimore comes bursting out of the water. After that, there’s no time to worry about clothes.

***

Geralt comes trudging into the room he’s sharing with Jaskier in Tretogor and is greeted by a sigh. Jaskier sits at the table, wearing his sole surviving breeches and one of Geralt’s own shirts, which hangs off his shoulders. Geralt’s interest would be piqued by the sight, if Jaskier didn’t carry such an air of misery as he hunches over a roll of parchment, quill in hand. As Geralt puts down his things, Jaskier sighs again.

“What’s the matter?” Geralt asks. Jaskier’s been sulking nonstop since his clothes were destroyed by the kikimore.

“I’m just figuring out how to phrase this letter informing Prince Radovid that I won’t be able to play at his birthday banquet in a way that won’t get me blackballed or beheaded.”

Geralt turns to him, dismayed. “You’re not playing at the banquet?” Normally, that would be something of a relief; he’s been dreading accompanying Jaskier to the party, which sounds like his worst nightmare. But he knows Jaskier was looking forward to this and it’s not like the bard to back out of a night of wine, women, and music.

“I’m going to tell him that I’m ill and hope that he doesn’t feel snubbed,” Jaskier says. “He has a week to procure my replacement, which should be plenty of time for a prince.”

“But you’re not sick. You’re fine.”

“I have nothing to wear, Geralt!” Jaskier looks up at him in exasperation. “You’ve never lived at court, so you don’t get it. Appearances are everything. For Radovid to have to replace the bard for his birthday feast at the last minute is an inconvenience. For him to have an unfashionable bard show up will just be embarrassing for him. People will wonder why the heir to the Redanian throne can’t get a better, more well-dressed bard. Radovid is not the kind of man you want to embarrass. He could ruin me. He will ruin me, if he feels I've disrespected him.”

Geralt doesn’t understand how the fuck Radovid would be embarrassed by Jaskier wearing ruffles, especially not so embarrassed that it could have repercussions for Jaskier. But there’s real distress in Jaskier’s eyes, not the affected horror he puts on so often. It would be easy to dismiss Jaskier as being dramatic, but it’s true that he understands court life better than Geralt ever could.

“Come on,” Geralt finds himself saying. “Put down your quill. We’re going out.”

Jaskier sighs. “My friend, as much as I would love to drink away my sorrows right now, I don’t think it’s going to help. Plus, I should save the little coin I have.”

“We’re not drinking away any sorrows.” Geralt grabs Jaskier by the scruff of his shirt and hauls him to his feet. “Come on.”

“Geralt, you can’t just manhandle me,” Jaskier says, but he lets Geralt haul him out the door nonetheless.

***

“A tailor?” Jaskier blinks up at the shop in front of them.

“I’m no expert, but I think that’s where you get new clothes made,” Geralt says dryly. “Unless you’d prefer the armorer down the road.”

Jaskier huffs out a laugh. “No, I don’t think wearing armor to the banquet will solve anything.”

“You’d be in less danger of getting stabbed.”

“That’s only happened once, you fiend,” Jaskier says. “And I’ve already told you, I can’t afford new clothes right now, especially not a rush job. I’ll have to make due with what I have until I return to Lettenhove for the winter.”

“Hm. Good thing I’m buying then.” At Jaskier’s wide-eyed look, Geralt feels a little sheepish. “I made some money selling the kikimores to an alchemist. Plus, I have the money from the leshen and katakan contracts. Should have enough to get you an outfit for the party, plus one or two everyday outfits, depending on how much we have to pay for the rush.”

“I’ll be able to pay you back,” Jaskier says, voice a bit wobbly. “Once I get paid for the banquet.”

“Don’t worry about it. I shouldn’t have let us make camp next to a kikimore-infested pond. This is the least I can do.”

As expected, Jaskier throws his arms around Geralt’s neck and clings for a long moment. Geralt endures the embrace the best he can, not enjoying the honeysuckle scent of Jaskier’s hair or the warm body pressed against his in the least.

“We going to go in, or are you going to wait until the banquet has come and gone?” Geralt finally asks.

Jaskier doesn’t let go of him. “You’re the best friend I’ve ever had, you know that?”

Geralt doesn’t know what to do with that. “You need better friends.”

“Not possible,” Jaskier says, but he lets go of Geralt and they head into the tailor’s shop.

The tailor is a friendly young woman who makes sympathetic noises when she hears about Jaskier’s close call with the kikimore—Jaskier really plays up how close he came to being the creature’s dinner—and offers to waive the rush fee. Jaskier chats with her as he selects two lengths of fabric, one in a deep red, the other a vibrant yellow. Jaskier seems perfectly pleased with both of his choices, but he doesn’t quite have that sparkle in his eye that he often gets when he gets a new outfit.

“Don’t you like them?” Geralt asks in an undertone when the tailor goes into the back to fetch her apprentice.

“Oh, it’s perfectly lovely,” Jaskier says. “And it’s very kind of her to waive the rush fee.”

“But?”

Jaskier laughs a little sadly. “It’s just, the outfit I was going to wear to the banquet was gorgeous, Geralt. I adored it. And there just isn’t any fabric here that pops like it did.” He looks down at the length of red fabric and sighs. “But it’s no matter. Both of these will suit perfectly well.”

Geralt is never going to be able to tell his brothers about this, he knows. They’ll never let him live it down.

***

After paying the first tailor for what will be Jaskier’s everyday outfits, they make their way to a second tailor’s shop, where the proprietor tells them flatly that he’s far too busy to put together an outfit in less than a week, no matter how much they pay him. Jaskier looks a little deflated as they make their way to the third shop, where the tailor spends the entire time they’re there staring at Geralt in open disgust. Despite the way he oohs and aahs over a length of lavender silk, Jaskier refuses to give the man his business and leaves in a huff.

“I think the red outfit will do nicely for the banquet,” Jaskier says as they make their way down the street. “Really, Geralt, there’s no need for all this—”

Geralt steers him into a fourth tailor’s shop before he can protest further. He can tell as soon as Jaskier lights up at the sight of the rows of fabric that they’ve found the right place.

Except, the elderly tailor, while as sympathetic as the first tailor, shakes his head. “I’m sorry, lad,” he says. “But I’m working on two other last-minute orders for the prince’s banquet this week. I just don’t have the time to take on another, not without working my apprentices round-the-clock.”

“Ah.” Jaskier’s shoulders sag. “Understandable.”

“That being said.” The tailor taps his chin. “I do keep a selection of outfits that weren’t paid for in the back for just this sort of occasion. There might be something there that will suit you?”

Jaskier smiles, but doesn’t look hopeful. “It might be worth a look. Thank you!” As the man shuffles away, he adds to Geralt in an undertone, “I know a handful of tailors who do this, and the outfits are never very good. I don’t know if it’s that people who don’t pay their tailor always have poor taste or if it’s that the outfits just weren’t up to snuff in the first place, but— Ah, you’re back!”

The tailor returns, pushing a rack laden with clothes. He looks between Jaskier and the rack, clucking his tongue. “Oh, this one isn’t right for your skin tone. And this one will be too short in the arms and legs and I don’t know if I have any more of this fabric. Bah, I don’t know why I still have this one. No one wears ruffles anymore.”

“No one indeed,” Geralt deadpans. He stands still so Jaskier can elbow him in the side, because he admittedly deserves it.

“What about this one, my boy?” The tailor asks, holding up a doublet for inspection.

It’s the ugliest thing that Geralt has ever seen, a horrible, peacock feather-patterned doublet in swirling shades of green and blue. But Jaskier sucks in a delighted breath.

“Geralt!” He seizes Jaskier by the arm. “Melitele’s supple bottom, it’s perfect! Isn’t it perfect, Geralt?”

Geralt wonders if the Jaskier hit his head during the kikimore attack, but he nods. “It’s very… you, Jaskier.”

Jaskier barely seems to hear him; he only has eyes for the monstrosity in front of him. Geralt watches in bemusement as Jaskier tries on the outfit, making appreciative noises about the fabric, which the tailor claims to be the finest Nazairi silk money can buy. The outfit is a bit long in the arms and legs and loose in the waist, but the tailor assures Jaskier that he can find the time to make such minor alterations by the end of the day.

“It’s almost like it was made for you,” the tailor tells Jaskier warmly.

Jaskier turns to Geralt, eyes shining. “What do you think?”

Geralt thinks that the outfit looks like a flock of peacocks got chewed up by a basilisk and spat back out. But Jaskier is glowing, looking as excited as he did as the first time they stopped by a tavern and were greeted by a chorus of, “Toss A Coin.” He looks like a man who just fell in love at first sight. Geralt doesn’t want to say or do anything to wipe that expression off his face.

“It looks good,” he says and to his surprise, he’s not even lying.

Somehow, Jaskier’s smile grows even brighter.

“And here.” The tailor steps forward, holding up a black outfit with a pattern of silver stars. “If you need an outfit as well, Sir Witcher, I think this one will suit you quite nicely.”

As Jaskier makes a noise of pure glee, Geralt realizes that resistance is futile. Eskel and Lambert truly can never know about this.

***

Tag list: @kueble @mollymawkwrites @feral-jaskier @geraltrogerericduhautebellegarde @dawnofbards @thisislisa @tsukiwolf42 @mosaicscale @rockysstupidity @fontegagrilledcheese @kuripon @help-i-need-a-cool-username @julek @flowercrown-bard @eveljerome

#witcher #witcher fic #geraskier fanfiction #geraskier #fic

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