#what about the bard 2021

[reveniemus]

Title: Lambskier in Comfort Minor, No 1

Prompt: Sept 21: There was only one bed (with a hint of Sept 15's Discrimination Against Witchers and Sept 19's Loss of Voice)

Pairing: Lambert & Jaskier, could be romantic if you squint

Rating: G

Warnings: None? Other than that it is unbeta'd af. Let me know if there is any I need to tag <3

@whataboutthebard | written for @natskier, who said "And if you want to write something, could I have some quiet cuddles in the dark? Don’t care whomst, don’t care if platonic or family or romantic, don’t care if they cant talk rn or just be comfortable with silent cuddles, but if you want to write and this strikes an idea at some point, I sure would love to read that" | thank you, @endrega23 for giving it a quick onceover <3 | on ao3!

It’s not true that witchers don’t feel. It’s a bald faced lie that was created to make it easy to hate witchers, to throw rotten vegetables at them and make them sleep with the livestock. Some witchers have learned to live with these misconceptions, happy to fake stoicism or politeness in the face of discrimination. He thinks, however, that if any humans met Lambert, they would change their tune quickly.

After having spent years traveling with Geralt, who said two words about anything good or bad, it was a culture shock for him to hear a litany of curses coming from the red headed witcher. Jaskier sits on the bed, watching Lambert pace through the room, anger seeping out of him as he rants about the town official who tried to cheat him out of his coin or the merchant who tried to sell him mediocre wares for luxury prices. Jaskier doesn’t even need to make any kind of noise or nod along to encourage him, he just emotes, his arms flailing and tensing as he punches his fist to his palm to avoid ruining the furniture at the inn.

Hilariously, the witcher doesn’t even flinch or stumble when Jaskier stands, walking over as Lambert continues his barrage of insults towards the town’s blacksmith and the stablemaster, who had given Lambert’s horse a dirty look upon realizing what he was. He barely takes a breath as Jaskier helps strip him of his armor, not even giving Jaskier a second look or following up on where the bard tucks away his swords (somewhere safe, but within easy reach always, Jaskier has picked up on habits universal to every witcher in his travels). It shows an insane amount of trust and it warms Jaskier’s heart more than he cares to admit.

Once Lambert is stripped of his armor, Jaskier takes his hand and tugs lightly. Lambert is still going, insulting the barkeep who tried to give him watered down ale, but his tone is less aggressive, less loud and he follows Jaskier without hesitation. Jaskier pulls back the covers and climbs into bed, tugging Lambert in beside him. The bed is only just barely big enough for two grown men — another slight towards witchers that the town has participated in — but it’s never bothered the bard before.

Lambert’s words trail off mid-sentence as Jaskier curls into him, head resting on his chest, just above his slow beating heart. He looks down at the bard, taking deep breaths to calm his mind. He hums as Jaskier’s fingers curl into the front of his shirt, wrapping an arm around his shoulders. “Geralt mentioned this happens sometimes. You okay?” he asks, keeping his voice low.

Jaskier nods against his shirt, eyes closed and pressed close to Lambert. Even in the quiet of it, he can hear emotions in Lambert’s voice, softer this time, gentler than the rage he showed just moments before.

“Okay,” he whispers, shifting to snuff out the candle. He shifts again to wrap both arms around the bard, holding him close and Jaskier listens to his slow, even breathing, copying his rhythm.

Jaskier clings to Lambert, breathing in the scent of warmth and rosemary that seems to come naturally from the witcher. He thinks of how wary Lambert had been when Jaskier had first met the wolf, the way he wouldn’t take his eyes off the bard and the purposeful movements that kept his back away from him. It’s not easy out there for witchers, he knows that, and compared to what they have to go through, the things that plague Jaskier’s mind are hardly worth noting, and yet, they care. They let him ask questions and be as loud and obnoxious as he wants, but in the face of moments like this, where all Jaskier wants is to be held and to have no expectations placed on him, they’re right there too, making sure he’s safe, feels loved.

Even if Lambert’s breathing has evened out, Jaskier knows he’s in a state of meditation more than anything, so that if Jaskier needs him, he’s there, awake, alert, and ready to do whatever needs to be done. He slides his hand over the space above Lambert’s heart, a soft sigh escaping him as he snuggles in closer. The gentle squeeze of his shoulder is the last thing he consciously feels before falling asleep.

[reveniemus]

Title: Geraskier in Angst Major, No 2

Prompt: Sept 12: Destruction of sentimental property/theft and Sept 14: Amnesia

Pairing: Gen, but heavily implied Geraskier

Rating: T, for cursing and some hurt

Warnings: I don' t think there's any but lmk if I'm wrong pls

@whataboutthebard | on ao3!

Jaskier has learned some things about creatures and monsters while traveling with a Witcher, but clearly, not enough.

There's something inherently unsettling about the quiet, Jaskier decides. He doesn't like it, but at the same time, the desire to play and sing and talk... all of it seems to have left him today. Today, this week, this lifetime. A part of him wonders if it will ever come back, the ache of his emotions burying him.

Jaskier stares out into the water, his breaths speeding up as he lets his emotions bubble over.

If life could give me one blessing...

The words echo in his mind, the strap to his lute digging into his shoulder. His chest aches and he thinks that maybe he'll always ache. He can practically hear Geralt chiding him for being so dramatic, but that's part of the problem, isn't it? He does or says something dramatic, Geralt scolds him for it, and Jaskier tells the Witcher he loves it, and the older man says nothing. Jaskier had always seen the silence as an agreement of the fact that despite Geralt denying their friendship, the Witcher was at least mildly fond of the bard.

Now, he realizes it was all foolish, childish hope. A desire brought about by his desire to have found somewhere he belonged. Jaskier lets out a loud scream, pulling every ounce of air in his lungs to release the noise. It isn't enough, doesn't feel like enough, so he grabs the nearest thing that makes him feel, the lute on his back and he throws it as far as he can, screaming all the while. He's breathing hard, his chest heaving as he watches the lute bob in the water, the gold details shimmering in the setting sun.

Jaskier chokes back a sob, wiping at his eyes. It only takes a second before realization hits him and the dread of losing the lute fills him. Jaskier drops his bag, barely pulling his boots completely off before he's rushing into the water. He begs the lute to stay afloat as it moves in the water, more and more of it disappearing with every movement.

“I'll do anything. Please, I’ll give you anything,” he begs to any deity who will listen. "Don't take it, I need it," he says, struggling in the water as his clothes try to drag him down. He makes a triumphant noise when he grabs hold of the lute's strap, tugging the instrument close. "Thank you," he breathes out, turning to head back to shore.

"You said anything, bard," an ethereal voice says from behind him.

Jaskier turns as quickly as the water allows, blue eyes wide as he takes in the figure in front of him. "I — what's the price?" he asks, voice shakier than he'd like.

The figure glides closer and hovers in front of him. "I want to know what made you give such a special gift to my waters, only to take it back as quickly," the figure says, its voice a blend of sounds that soothes and unsettles Jaskier.

"It was —," he starts, and the figure tilts its head. Jaskier hates that he hears Geralt’s voice in the back of his mind, warning him of making deals and sharing details with creatures he isn’t familiar with. "What happens once you know?"

"You won't," the figure says, simple as anything.

Jaskier's brows furrow. "Like… I’ll forget?” he asks, his bottom lip caught between his teeth as the figure nods. Jaskier takes a deep breath and nods, opening his mouth to speak.

"There's no need, bard," the figure says, raising its arm. The moment their thumb presses against Jaskier's forehead, things go hazy and Jaskier thinks he passes out, a brief worry about drowning crossing his mind before the world goes dark.

• • •

Jaskier opens his eyes slowly, blinking up at the canopy of trees.

"Jaskier?" a gruff voice says, and suddenly there's a shadow hovering over him, long hair framing the darkened face. "You're awake, thank fuck," he says, moving and Jaskier squints at the sunlight filtering down at him.

"Geralt, give him some space, for fuck's sake," a familiar voice says, and Jaskier turns to see a dark haired sorceress sitting by a fire. "Jaskier, always one for the dramatics," she says, her tone amused and almost... fond. Jaskier thinks that's supposed to be unusual.

"I'm a bard, it's what I do," he says, the words falling off his tongue easily, as if he knows this script.

She smiles and holds a mug out to him. "Drink. It'll help with the cold," she says, and he realizes that he is, in fact, shivering.

He takes the mug with quiet thanks and nurses it for a moment before taking a long sip. Jaskier heaves a deep sigh as he takes another long dreg. "Thanks, Yen," he says, taking another drink before he realizes he knows her name, but he's not sure how. There is a niggling sensation in the back of his mind that he knows her, and fairly well, but it's like trying to pin down a wave.

"How do you feel?" the man asks, settling into the spot in front of Jaskier. Without the sun at his back, Jaskier can see his features better and he's beautiful. White hair curls around his broad, broad, broad shoulders and golden eyes watch Jaskier's every move. The amulet around his neck confirms Jaskier's suspicions: a Witcher. Fascinating.

"Better now," he says, unable to keep the flirtatious tone out of his voice. Jaskier decides he's fine with that when the witcher gives him the barest hint of a smile.

"Oh for fuck's sake, must I suffer through this?" Yennefer asks, though her tone isn't as exasperated as her words make her sound. The whole situation feels very... odd to Jaskier, like he's missing something, but he doesn't know what. "What's with the face?" she asks, an eyebrow raised as Jaskier’s eyes flicker from her to the beautiful stranger.

"I'm just... trying to sort everything out in my head," he says, taking another sip of the tea.

"Like what?" the stranger asks right as Yennefer hums thoughtfully.

"Something is blocking me out," she says, her brows furrowed as she moves closer to Jaskier. "What happened to you?" she asks, her hand raised to hover over his temple.

"I — what are you talking about? Nothing happened to me. I was walking and then... and then —" Jaskier trails off, realizing he doesn't know what then.

The stranger's brows furrow as Yennefer nudges him out of the way, her eyes staring at Jaskier's head intently. "Is it a curse or a spell? "he asks, and Jaskier finds himself fighting a smile at the concern in his tone.

"Geralt, calm your thoughts or walk away. I can't concentrate with your rambling," Yennefer says, and the stranger — Geralt — turns a soft pink that Jaskier wants to kiss away. "Jaskier, what’s the last thing you remember before waking up?"

Jaskier sits, stunned by how difficult the question is. It shouldn't be. "Spring was coming. I woke up to the sound of birds."

"Spring?"

"It's the last solid memory. Everything after that is hazy and it feels … incomplete," he tells her, knowing from experience that the best way to solve a problem caused by Chaos is to be honest with the agent of Chaos helping you.

Yennefer hums and finally leans back. "We need to get back to my place. I need my things," she says, standing to gather her belongings. The two men are still until she looks over, an eyebrow raised. "Are you coming? "she asks, and they both stand quickly.

Jaskier stands and grabs his lute, glancing down to see he’s not wearing shoes. He looks up and sees Geralt holding out a pair of boots to him, a bag that looks decidedly not like anything a witcher would own hanging over his shoulder.

“Roach has the rest of my things at her place,” he says, nodding towards Yennefer, who has created a portal out of thin air.

Something about the ease with which he says it makes something in Jaskier’s heart feel out of sorts, but he can’t figure out why. Still, he takes the boots and tugs them on, using Geralt’s arm to keep his balance. The touch is warm and Jaskier thinks he hears Geralt inhale sharply, but writes it off that the bard probably smells like pond scum and mildew and witchers have very sensitive noses.

“Come along, you two, we have no time to waste,” Yennefer calls out, and Geralt is the first to walk through the portal, a grimace on his face. Yennefer puts a hand on Jaskier’s rm right before he goes through. “You know I’m hardly the person to say this sort of thing, but … be gentle with him,” she says, her voice soft and serious.

Jaskier’s brows furrow, but his eyes glance over to where Geralt is unhooking his swords and armor through the portal, and nods. He hesitates, not sure if he wants to say anything else, but decides not to as he walks through the portal. Once he’s through, he stumbles, blinking as Geralt catches his arm. “Thank you,” he mumbles, ducking his head as he straightens up.

Geralt hums and nods, pulling away to catch Yennefer as she comes through. He steps back as Yennefer straightens herself out, heading immediately towards her workstation.

Yennefer looks at the two of them as they stand there watching her and hums. “Geralt, will you go through your bestiary with Jaskier?” she asks, eyebrow raised as she watches them both.

Geralt nods and moves towards his things, digging through it and pulling out a book. He looks at Jaskier, who is looking between Geralt and Yennefer with a question in his eyes.

“Do you think I was attacked?” Jaskier asks, moving towards Geralt and sitting on the bench next to him. He knows the stories about Witchers, knows that trust for them is minimal at best, but he knows, somehow, that this Witcher won’t hurt him.

“It’s a start. If we know what it was, Yen can figure out how to fix it,” Geralt says, flipping to the first page of his bestiary. Jaskier only nods, watching the way his fingers deftly sort through the pages.

“How do you know it needs to be fixed?” he asks, voice soft as he keeps his eyes on Geralt’s hands.

Geralt pauses, and Jaskier can feel his amber eyes on the bard’s face, but he doesn’t look at him. “You said the last thing you remember was spring coming?” he asks, and Jaskier nods, still keeping his eyes on Geralt’s hands. “Right before we parted ways, I — I said some things and they were wrong and hurtful and …” Geralt hesitates, and finally, finally Jaskier looks up at him, sees the concern and worry in his amber eyes. “I want to make it up to you, to fix it,” he says, his eyes pleading with Jaskier.

Jaskier knows he doesn’t know what Geralt is talking about, but his heart seizes up, feeling the pain Geralt feels for having left things the way he had. He knows he doesn’t hold it against Geralt and is more than happy to forgive him for whatever transgressions the Witcher feels guilt over, but he knows how that guilt works too. Jaskier now, with his memory gone and knowing nothing about what happened, is not the Jaskier who needs to forgive him.

“Here, drink this,” Yennefer says, handing Jaskier a mug of something steaming and strong smelling.

As he drinks, Jaskier wonders what sort of situation he had found himself in that led to him trusting a sorceress and a witcher unconditionally. Still, he drinks the tea and sits, patiently waiting for whatever he’s drinking to work.

Geralt, he realizes, is still flipping through the pages of his bestiary and Jaskier glances down to see something … familiar.

“Wait,” he says, his hand reaching for Geralt’s wrist and holding it still. He thinks about how, the one time he met a witcher as a kid, they had not taken to sudden movements or touches well. Yet, Geralt doesn’t flinch or react, simply stills his hand like Jaskier asks him to. Jaskier reminds himself that even though he is Jaskier, he is not the Jaskier that Geralt needs or wants. That Jaskier did something stupid and got caught up with whatever creature was in the pages of Geralt’s bestiary.

“A nymph?” Geralt asks, an eyebrow raised as he smooths out the page Jaskier had stopped him on.

“Oh good, that’s not vague and unhelpful at all,” Yennefer huffs, shaking her head as she returns to her workstation.

Geralt looks from the page to Jaskier. “Are you sure?” he asks, searching Jaskier’s face.

He looks at the page closely, trying not to inhale too deeply as the scent of leather and horses fills his nose. “I … it’s out of focus, but I think so, yes,” he mumbles, closing his eyes and leaning back against the stone walls. “They were … it was ethereal? Like things were glossy and bright, so I can’t keep the image,” he explains, brows furrowing as he tries to remember the image.

“What did they want?” Geralt asks, and Jaskier tries not to think about how close he feels.

“My lute. I — I had given it to them, and taken it back,” he says, his index finger rubbing against the cuticle edge of his thumbnail.

“You don’t have to keep going right now,” Geralt says, concern laced between his words. It makes Jaskier’s heart ache for him, that he is so clearly fond of Jaskier, but the Jaskier who can remember him, not the one who has made a deal with a creature and lost him.

It makes him more determined to fix this. “No, it’s okay, I …” The memory dissipates and he groans, leaning forward to bury his face in his hands. “I’ll figure it out, so Yen can fix it,” he mumbles into his hands, but he knows Geralt has heard because he’s a witcher and because he takes a deep breath.

“If I’m the reason you made this deal, then maybe it’s best she doesn’t,” he says, his voice quiet and uncertain. “Maybe we could just go our separate ways and … pretend you’ve never known me,” he continues, and Jaskier doesn’t know Geralt, not the way Geralt knows (knew?) him, but he can feel the pain behind the suggestion. Geralt doesn’t want to pretend, but he’s willing to because clearly at some point, Jaskier with his memories intact wanted to forget about Geralt badly enough that he bartered his memories away.

Jaskier looks up at Geralt, studying his face for a moment. “Is that what you want?” he asks, voice soft.

Geralt furrows his brows, but shakes his head. “What I want doesn’t matter. I’ve been selfish enough with you,” he says, looking down at his own hands. The bard doesn’t need to have decades of memories to know that talking about things like this is difficult for Geralt — it’s written clear as day on his face — but he thinks that maybe this is what they both needed.

Jaskier takes a deep breath and turns to look at Geralt. “What did you say?” he asks, already knowing he won’t like the answer, but it feels important to know the details.

“I — ,” Geralt hesitates before taking a deep breath and meeting Jaskier’s eyes. “I was angry and lashing out and I blamed you for everything going wrong.”

Jaskier is about to say he’s probably right, the same blame being passed onto him by his parents, teachers, siblings, and childhood friends, when Geralt shakes his head.

“You weren’t to blame for any of it,” he says firmly, keeping his eyes locked on Jaskier. “I shouldn’t have — I’m sorry.”

Jaskier furrows his brows, shaking his head. “I know myself, and that wouldn’t be enough to make me leave,” he says, holding his head high. “What did you say, Geralt?”

“Jaskier…” Yennefer speaks again, and Jaskier remembers her warning about being gentle, and wonders what happened between the three of them that created this situation.

“I said,” Geralt takes a deep breath and closes his eyes, “that … if life could give me one blessing, it would be to take you off my hands.”

The words aren’t directed at him, not like it would've been the first time Geralt had said it, but it hits Jaskier like he’s been punched in the gut. “Oh,” he whispers, hating the way his voice shakes.

“Jaskier…” Geralt says, the regret and sadness evident in his voice. “I am so — ,” he breaks off when Jaskier shakes his head, a confused look on his face.

“No, no, you don’t have to — I’m not the Jaskier you said that to, I’m not the Jaskier who needs your apologies,” he says, standing to take a few steps away from Geralt, taking a deep breath as he crosses his arms.

“What are you talking about?” Geralt stands, trying to follow Jaskier, but it’s made difficult by the bard’s pacing.

“You didn’t say those words to me, I’m not the one who needs to hear your apologies. You need the Jaskier who heard those words and — and who wanted to forget everything because of how much it hurt,” he says, running his hands through his hair frantically.

Geralt puts his hands on Jaskier’s shoulders, stopping him from continuing to pace and pull at his hair. “Julek,” he says, his hands moving to Jaskier’s cheeks, gentle but firm.

Jaskier feels his breathing slow as their eyes meet, Geralt’s searching his face for something and he must find it, Jaskier hopes he finds it because he feels stripped bare more than he’s ever felt in his life. “Yes?” he whispers, breath shaky.

“How do you lose all your memories and still put me first?” Geralt asks, his voice soft and Jaskier thinks there are tears welling up in his eyes.

Jaskier hesitates, not sure what to say, but thankfully, he’s saved from having to when the sound of Yennefer’s shoes clicking against the stone floor echoes around them.

“Jaskier, you said they wanted your lute right?” she asks, not looking up from her book as she walks up to the instrument.

The bard pulls away from Geralt, blinking quickly to reorient himself away from the feeling of being exposed. “Yes, um, well, I had thrown my lute in the water, and they wanted to know why I would take it back,” he says, crossing his arms so he can rub his hands against them, suddenly cold without Geralt’s body heat so close to him.

Yennefer hums, fingers hovering above the lute and Jaskier thinks he sees tendrils of Chaos travel between her fingers and the wood. “Well, there is some good news,” she says, glancing up at the witcher and the bard. “And some bad news.”

“What is it?” Geralt asks, turning so he’s standing behind Jaskier.

“Well, the memories aren’t lost or being held captive by anyone or anything,” she explains, putting her book down and gently picking up the lute. “To get them back, however, might require destroying the lute,” Yennefer continues, eyes flicking back and forth between gold and blue.

Geralt tenses up and Jaskier inhales sharply. “Destroy the lute?” the bard whispers, eyes wide as he looks down at the gold detailed instrument in her hand.

“Nymph magic isn’t solid on its own, it tends to imbue the powers of other magical things, and the nymph linked your memories with the lute,” she explains, holding it out to Jaskier. “There’s a possibility of different solutions, but the simplest way to break the spell is to break the lute.”

“What are the other possible solutions?” Geralt asks before Jaskier can process the fact that he has to destroy the beautiful instrument in his hands.

“Maybe his memories will come back if he plays, maybe the spell will wear off over time, but those are just possibilities. Without knowing the details of the nymph’s magic, we can’t know for sure, and I doubt she’ll be itching to share,” Yennefer explains, picking up her book.

“That lute was a gift from the elves,” Geralt starts, and Yennefer rolls her eyes.

“I know, from your first adventure together. I’ve heard the song, witcher, but that doesn’t change the fact that ���,” Yennefer startles, taking a step back when she’s interrupted by the discordant noises of a stringed instrument being hit against stone.

Geralt jumps back, eyes wide as he watches Jaskier, a wild look in his eyes as he holds the neck in his hands, the strings hanging off the splintered end as the body of it is laid in pieces on the ground. “Jaskier…”

Jaskier stares at the pile of wood, watching the way the trim shimmers. He looks up at Yennefer and Geralt, giving them both a small smile before his eyes roll to the back of his head and he crumples.

• • •

Jaskier opens his eyes slowly, blinking up at the canopy of a four poster bed.

“Jaskier?” A familiar gruff voice asks as Jaskier sits up, Geralt appearing at his bedside almost immediately. “You’re awake.”

The bard rubs at his head. “Why does this feel eerily familiar, very deja vu? How did I get here?” he asks, looking up with wide eyes when he sees Yennefer seated at the end of the bed watching him curiously. “Oh gods. Tell me, was there a djinn involved?”

“Thank fuck that worked,” Yennefer breathes out, standing. She drops a pile of wood where she was previously seated. “Next time you make a deal with a nymph, get all of the details, you insufferable idiot,” she tells him before striding out the door. He thinks he heard some fondness in her tone, but he dares not think about it too much in case Yennefer read his mind and turned him into a frog or something.

Jaskier’s eyes follow after her, brows furrowed as he looks from the door to the broken pieces of wood. “Is that my lute?” he asks, mildly panicked as he turns to Geralt, who looks sheepish but relieved.

“Drink some tea, Yen said it’ll help with the memory gaps,” Geralt says, handing him a mug of tea, “we’ve got a lot to talk about.”

if you’re so inclined, i’d love a coffee