#i'm gonna play with the jaskier/julian thing

[lemondropsssss]

ok so i accidentally posted the wrong version of this first chapter ¯\_(ツ)_/¯ who knows how i managed that, here’s the actual version with like, finished thoughts and shit. this story is on ao3 here

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The mountain happens.

Words are said in a moment of anger and fear. Terrible words. The Witcher couldn't have hurt him more if he'd used his sword. Jaskier has made Geralt angry before, but this? This was different. This time he means it.

So he walks away.

Doesn’t get the stories from the others. He stops at their campsite and packs up his gear as quickly as he can. He knows there’s a few of his items in Geralt’s pack but he ignores them. Rooting through the man’s belongings with abandon is not something he should be doing anymore.

His ears are ringing and all he can hear is the steady thud of his heartbeat and the beat of his lute on his back as he walks.

His lute. Jaskier stops short and quickly pulls the instrument from its case. Still as beautiful as the day Filavandrel had given it to him, barring one small dent when he’d used the poor girl as club. He’d taken out four of the bandit’s teeth with that blow. Geralt had smiled at him.

Now thinking of that moment brings bile to his mouth, and he retches horribly into the tall grass. The rushing in his ears gets louder and louder. His grip tightens and he can hear the unhappy twang of pressed strings.

He needs to get it away from him as humanly possible so Jaskier grips his lute and flings it far over the mountain side. He doesn't hear it hit the ground, but knows there will be nothing left of it but scrap.

Good.

He keeps walking.

Jaskier is alone, half drunk on lack of sleep and actual drink from his hipflask when it happens. When the last twenty-two years of his life fragments around him.

It's the fucking metalsmith's that triggers it; one second he's ambling down the road in the vague direction of an inn, tavern, or otherwise amenable hayloft. And the next second he's brought to his knees by the smells of worked leather, hot steel, sword oil, and some burnt tang in the air he can't even name. It's distinctly Geralt and it breaks him.

Memories fall around him like shards of glass; cutting his skin until a biting stinging hurt is all he can feel. And when the pieces shatter they dig into him; flaming shards of the last decades burrow deep into him, the hurt taking root in his bones and the soles of his feet. And every piece sounds like...

Shut up, bard

Fuck off, Jaskier

Go away, boy

Why do you never listen?

He wanted you gone

You shouldn’t be here

He doesn’t like you

This is where we part, bard

He wanted to be rid of you

It’s like ordering a pie and finding it has no filling

He’s telling you everything you need to know why don’t you take the hint you stupid useless excuse of a man

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

For once in your life do as your told

It takes Jaskier three months to get from the dragon mountains to Oxenfurt. Apparently, destroying his main way of generating income isn’t the best idea he’s ever had. It also doesn't help that most of the coin he does find he in turn spends primarily on wine and not say, getting to his destination in a timely fashion.

Cresting the hill, Oxenfurt is just as beautiful as he remembered it. He slogs through the city, thinking wistfully of one of Geralt's more useful talents; scaring other travelers well away meant less time pushing and shoving through people to get anywhere.

When he finally reaches the great carved gates to the University he’s stopped by two guards before he can even think to step closer.

“This entrance is for students, faculty, and the academics. Giving Door is around the back.” The guard gestured over his shoulder towards the back side of the citadel where Jaskier knew there was a free kitchen and a place to get staple supplies run by the University.

“Oh, but I am faculty, good sir,” He says with an easy smile. No need to antagonize the nice men with pointy sticks. “Julian Alfred Pancratz, Viscount de Lettenhove, at your service.” He mimes tipping his cap. The guards are not impressed.

It takes some wheedling, but soon the dean is summoned and Jaskier is recognized and clapped firmly on the shoulder and after just a little too long of the bowing and scraping and speaking of payment and contracts and gods cursed lesson-plans before Jaskier is allowed to retire to his rooms.

The rooms are as he left them, though he suspects that while he was being held captive by the dean someone came in to sweep, dust, and open the windows.

Here he is. Home. Or as much as passes for it anymore. He’d thought that Geralt was his home but- no. No. If he was going to do this and be here, he has to put that fanciful life aside. He has to accept that he doesn’t belong in the worlds of magic inhabited by witchers and sorceresses and powerful princesses. He was a bard. Less than that, he was a bard without an instrument.

Well then.

Time for a change.

The next morning he takes a long bath. His traveler's beard is scruffier than he likes, so he trims and shapes it carefully until he’s satisfied. It's important to look the part. He'd managed to squirrel away a hefty sum over the years, so he goes down to the city on a mission.

He buys new shirts, trousers, doublets, boots, coats, gloves. All in muted earth or jewel tones; burgundies, rusts, indigos, navies, and soft tawny browns. No black. He gets his hair cut shorter, something more fitting a professor at a prodigious university and not some fumbling idiot following a man who clearly doesn’t care for him.

When Jaskier gets home he carefully packs everything from his life with Geralt into a chest. His clothes, cloak, packs, songbook, and some small treasures children had given them as thanks. He grabs the last one, a crudely carved wooden cat. Geralt had been given this by an eight-year-old girl in some backwater village plagued by a nasty band of nekkers. She’d been so proud of her work, even Geralt couldn’t be a grouch to her. He puts that figurine back on the mantle, shuts the chest, and pushes it under the bed.

Slowly, he dresses in his new wardrobe. Shaking fingers struggle with new buttons, but he manages the shirt and half of the doublet. Trousers next, then boots. And finally, after an age of adjusting seams and doing then redoing buttons, he meets his eye in the floor length mirror.

The man before him is in his early forties. He's handsome, with a wide smile and bright blue eyes. Lightly built, but corded with muscles built over years on the road. A few streaks of grey swirl in his hair. He’s fit, almost six foot tall. Dark blue peeks from under his high necked burgundy doublet. Dressed like this, he looks like a professor and not some damned fool.

“Well then,” His voice is rough, even to his own ears. “Jaskier the Bard is dead.” Saying it aloud made his breath catch, his stomach roll, but he stood firm. “Jaskier the Bard is dead.” That felt marginally better. “Jaskier the Bard is dead.” Hardly any wobble to his voice at all that time. “Jaskier the Bard died on a mountain top, far from home and very alone.” Deep breath.

“My name is Professor Julian Alfred Pancratz, Viscount de Lettenhove. Pleasure to make your acquaintance.”

[roughentumble]

apparently my mind's stuck on curses lately but I just thought about Jaskier getting de-aged and Geralt's thinking 'great, I'm gonna be dealing with a hyperactive kid with twice as much energy as Jaskier typically has' but instead Jaskier's super reserved and too quiet and proper bc he grew up with noble parents who ascribed to the whole 'children should be seen not heard' thing

So it's Geralt stuck dealing not only with Jaskier as a kid but Jaskier acting like a totally different person, to the point he only responds to Julian which is WEIRD, and anyone he talks to says the curse will wear off but in the meantime he brings him to Kaer Morhen bc it'll be safer

Ultimately it's a bunch of witchers dealing with the bard, who they typically think of as flamboyant and chatty and capable of lighting up any room, who doesn't even play the lute bc his parents always told him it was a waste of time

!!!!!!!!!

SCREAMMMMMM I LOVE THIS

[marvelousmaize]

Okay, I see the need for Jaskier not to age and I 100% agree with everything you said because he's my child but I have a question and I'm new to the fandom and I haven't seen or read anything other than the Netflix show so this is an honest question: what do we actually know about Jaskier's past? And, follow up question, apart from witchers and mages, what other sorts of things age slowly or don't age, and couldn't he be one of them? I see a lot of fic opportunities here. Thank you!

We’re in the same boat! I’m also very, very new to this fandom - all I know is from the show (never played the games, never read the books, etc.) and then things I’ve picked up here and there, so I’m gonna try and answer this question to the best of my ability.

From what I can tell, I *think* all we know about Jaskier is that his full name is actually Julian Alfred Pankratz, Viscount de Lettenhove, which indicates some sort of affluent childhood (maybe the equivalent of modern day upper-middle class? who knows) or a noble lineage, at the very least. We don’t know anything about his parents, so if the writers are in the mood to do some ret-conning and make him part-elf or something, that could also explain why he ages slower.

And I think that gets to the second part of your question! Besides elves, who in the show also age slower, I’m not clear if there are any other sorts of magical creatures, or creatures forged in magic (like witchers) who also age slowly. But probably! I feel like with this kind of fantasy world, anything is possible.