#my also favourite headcanon is jaskier being a supernatural creature without anyone realising. him ofc including

[stolensilmarils]

so maybe it happens like this.

maybe there are fae living in the Upside-Down and Other Side of Things and Places in their sunlit halls and starlit gardens unbothered by and uninterested in the plagues beyond the borders of their dwellings. but the humans who now so selfishly shape earth and claim everything they touch as their own are so delightfully fun to play with and torment and maim

so maybe it’s just a common sense to keep a sprinkle of salt or an iron nail in your pocket when you go about your work in the fields or walk through meadows. steps careful, eyes sharp

except maybe there’s an unattended toddler stumbling through rings of mushrooms and chasing bees, giggles and clumsy jumps over rain puddles, whom no one cared to warn

(and human children are such marvelous little creatures - you can’t really blame the fae when this one is practically banging on their front doors)

maybe they don’t even bother to place a Changeling in julian’s place as the wind and tree roots lead him from his bed and through the window, bare feet ankle-deep in mud

maybe there is a Fae King to whom all the twisted creatures bow, who’s in a sour mood that night. maybe they seek entertainment (or maybe they just plan to tear the child’s head off)

but maybe the crown they wear is studded with buttercups and even if the child has only now learned to walk and talk, he knew singing even before he took his first breath and the poison yellow flowers do so inspire a song and oh.

maybe instead of unwilling blood taken there is a gift freely given. maybe there is the gift accepted and maybe there is a Boon bestowed

(and what boon is more gracious than the taste of grin sharp, black lips, teeth too many?)

and so maybe the child is returned home that night with dreams filled with pollen and starlight and bitter taste of summerwine. and where julian went to sleep jaskier wakes up none the wiser

his oh so dear parents have never cared, his oh so tired governess - circles of black under empty eyes, fingers like a bow, wrapped around a bottle neck. and the boy is a child whose memories still haven’t learned to cling, so maybe the days and weeks turn to months and years and life goes on

and it may not even be his singing or musical talents, that all can be him still. but maybe there are the little things that no one cares to notice or consider. because after all, who really knows how well exactly does a human eye see in the dark. who really pays attention to how fast small wounds heal

and is it not obvious? maybe the poison accidentally drunk was just a dose not lethal

ordinary people often have unordinary talents so is it really worth a notice if someone learns just slightly too fast, if under someone’s hands flowers grow just a little more lush and if at someone the wild dogs don’t dare to bark?

and if his fingers tingle while holding iron, well. he’s a poet not a smith. and if he tastes blood and ash in the back of his tongue when he’s about to tell a lie, well.  growing up, every village woman, grandmother and hag made sure to remind him that lying is bad and well. the taste of it is bad, they must have meant. it seems unnecessary anyway.

after all... the meanings of truth and honesty are not even closely related

(songs don’t count, of course. when lyrics rhyme and fit the note then they ring true, that’s a fact any poet knows)

and maybe he likes to know the names of people he meets, maybe the sound of them said out loud sparkles, taste of ripe peaches on his tongue but what of it. names have power. that’s a known fact, for names or enchantments, it must surely be the same for all

and maybe under the glow of pale stars, in the flare or fire spark or between the green spots that cloud one’s sight on a day too bright the shining eyes and teeth too sharp appear just s flash. A dream. A trick of light. (if a glamour has never been acknowledged or asked to be lifted, how could one then say it even exists?)

maybe people notice somehow. children tug on his sleeves, eyes wide, fingers reaching for his lute demanding a song. adults bite lips and flutter lashes, his music welcome in their ears, his breath welcome on their skin. but there’s something, something shifting beneath on the Upside-Down and Other Side, and it’s what soon after makes their steps away a little faster. he’s sweet, the bard, but talks too much. he’s sweet, the bard, but like his music he’s just a fleeting thing, an enjoyment for a night. he’s sweet, the bard, and he is as human as they come.

geralt, of course, doesn’t realise. amber eyes watchful and bright don’t even see dragon scales underneath the wrinkles of the old man with whom they dine. but after all, the medallion is quiet when there is no magic casted. no spells, no curses, no monsters. (a boon. a gift. a blessing, nothing more.) jaskier is as human as they come.

yennefer frowns when reaching into his thoughts, the walls of his mind sticky like honey, sweet like tree sap. (but maybe the bard just found a new way to annoy the pure hell out of her, why wouldn’t he?) she pays attention but all he does is trip over his words and feet, please. he’s as human as they come.

maybe, in the end, it happens as it often does, with the last man standing.

maybe it’s creatures, maybe it’s soldiers, doesn’t really matter what form the monsters take. but geralt is down and bleeding, yennefer is helpless and screaming and ciri, oh gods, ciri -

and jaskier’s hands are empty and trembling and he’s

useless, useless, useless bard. human as they come.

and maybe that’s when there’s the ever softest sound of hope lost, tears spilled like dew

and maybe that’s when there are insects buzzing, tree roots cracking, air filled with the scent of rain on fresh leaves, the skin-crawling hum of Other

and maybe that’s when there are the too bright eyes and the too sharp teeth and fingers all claws and after?

after.

after, when the ground is sated with fresh blood spilled, when wounds are treated and healed, then maybe all there is left is a lot of confused shouting

(‘how did you not know?!’ and ‘how did you not know?!’ and ‘of Course only you could get yourself snatched by fae!’ and ‘how dare you! i don’t even know what that means!’ and ‘precisely, you moron!’)

and after, maybe the world stays richer for one trickster, one immortal, one bard

(to his own delight)

(to many others’ misery)

and maybe. just maybe.

maybe there is a laughter in the air like clinking of wind chimes, like flutter of wings, like creaking of rotten wood, like the last sigh of a man dying. the Fae King cackles, the buttercups on their crown gleaming.

‘Now the real fun begins’