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Chapter Text

The scholarly city of Oxenfurt lay at the junction between Temeria and Redania. Straddling the Pontar River, it was positioned just upstream of a major delta—an island settlement surrounded at both sides by the embrace of running water and stone. It was a city of music and craftsmen—built around the needs of academics and to the exacting eyes of skilled artisans. It was a sprawl of conflicting artistic vision; a home of strict rigor and academia; an island caught between the two shifting tides. 

Julian Alfred Pankratz, Viscount de Lettenhove, fell in love with the city after only seven years spent in its loving embrace. In some ways, it was even easier than falling in love with a person. It was the full hearted exuberance of a lively folk song performance that did it: the brisk excitement of sprinting along a drawbridge and toward the promise of a soft bed and pleasant company. It was, in all the ways that mattered, a distinct and dear sort of love—the kind that was worthy of songs and sonnets alike. 

On this particular day, the loving embrace of Oxenfurt was perhaps a bit less lovely than Julian’s imagination might have otherwise preferred. Today, his voice and the lively accompaniment of his lute drew naught but jeers from the motley tavern crowd. 

“Fuck off into the cesspits!”

“Throw yourself down a well!”

The song, a newly debuted original on the adventures and romantic exploits of a grindylow, fell flat against the unappreciative ears of an unreceptive audience. One of the men listening, a bleary-eyed drunk with too many pimples to really count, threw a stein of half empty ale in Julian’s direction. His companion, who was somehow even uglier, boasted a sag of whitening hair and a rapidly balding pate. Looking more like a fat friar than a drunk, the man staggered forward. Froth came out of his mouth. He pawed in the bard’s general direction with the uncoordinated grace of a dying carp—but all the same, he had enough bulk and muscle to force his way towards the front of the crowd. 

Julian smiled, twisted to the side, and forged ahead regardless. It was a tough crowd, to be sure. Just as tough as he remembered, from the time he’d last broken tradition and elected to play one his own compositions over the tried and true favorites of the drunken fisherman and farmer. Nonetheless, he was sure that it was only a parable of persistence. 

Eventually, whether they liked it or not, this lot would one day sing to the praises of Jaskier the Master Bard—known everywhere across the continent for his dashing countenance and breathtaking ballads. 

Until then, it was only a matter of dodging insults—as well as the occasional projectiles of abuse that often accompanied them.

It was under an assault of stale bread and empty tankards that Julian was eventually forced to stop—but not before he’d collected his due of a promised meal from the sour looking barkeep. 

The man likely thought himself cheated—the mouldering piece of cheese that came with Julian’s plate certainly said enough about that—but there was a fine meal waiting for him across the drawbridge, so Julian said nothing and unhurriedly picked at the greenish, vaguely lumpy curd. This time, at least his doublet had survived the performance unstained. There was a long standing feud between the head steward and Julian’s habit of frequenting seedy taverns in the residential side of the island—a vitriol, thought Julian, that could be better served scrubbing the unclean arses of every layabout in the city. His clothes, and where they spent their time, was his own business. The yearly endowment paid by his family to the university administration was undoubtedly enough to silence the complaints of most clear minded people. 

Eventually, the dull conversations of afternoon drunkards was interrupted by the high, inquiring tones of a young girl. Julian recognized the voice even amongst the late afternoon crowd, tapping at his uneaten meal in a distracted tempo as he synchronized the beat of his heart to the rapid motions of the commonfolk, going about their day. 

A small face, pinched and pale, floated into his view. The young girl that approached him wore a finely spun cotton dress, woad blue and hemmed with a strip of dainty lace. He greeted her with a warm smile, sliding the unwanted plate of food back towards the now visibly apoplectic barkeep and clasping his lute to his chest.

“Kasia! My darling girl! What brings you this far out into the heinous maw of impolite society?” He gestured wide and grand, almost knocking his mostly full tankard of ale off onto the floor. The barkeep was no longer in his sight, but Julian was sure that the expression on his face would be one that would make itself into his next song. The Bard and the Horn-Mad Barkeep!

Kasia’s fine features turned upwards into a shy smile as she swatted at his outstretched arms. “Father wants to talk to you—he said you’d be in the taverns. Did you try one of your new songs again?”

Julian’s own smile faltered just the tiniest bit. He drew himself up, off the chair, and into his full height—pulling on Kasia’s arms until she was seated over his shoulders—laughing, like all children should. 

The questions she’d asked, along with the hostile countenance of the barkeep, went unanswered. 

“Don’t you worry about all that. If your father wants to see me, I don’t see any reason to keep him waiting. Let’s be off—before this kind barkeep decides he’s had enough of my ugly puss and decides to barr me out for good!”

Two men stood in an office overlooking a stone courtyard. The first man was middle aged—handsome, if a little heavy set. The second man was taller—with dark, wavy hair that curled down over his shoulders. In his left hand was a letter. Tucked alongside it was a sheet of loose parchment. He worried at both like a man gasping at a set of bones. The ghost of expectation clung to him like an impatient lover—unwilling to let it’s newest conquest go. 

“Three strikes past the afternoon bell. I’m not surprised—very few things in this regard surprise me anymore, but you would expect a student of the liberal arts to have a better sense of punctuality.”

The older man could only shrug—casting his gaze towards the only window in the room. The glass was warped and bubbled, and his eyes came together in a squint as he looked to the courtyard below.

“Julian has always had a soft touch. A heart for poetry and a mind for the fanciful, but I have never known him to shy away from the inquiries of those younger and more curious than himself.” His expression gentled. “Why, I think I see him now. Coming through the gatekeep with a little guest. No doubt Kasia will want another song before the day is out.

“Best you leave now, Valdo. I will see to it that your concerns are passed on. Leave the letter, as you wish—if it’s another missive from the bursar, he will have a harder time ignoring it from me than he would with you.”

Valdo’s eyebrows pinched together as he drew out the letter and set it on the desk. It was a little crumpled, but the broken seal was still distinct. A blob of red wax, with the shape of a crowned eagle pressed into its form. The professor’s mouth pursed as he considered the missive. Then he slid it closer and bade the other man farwell.

“You want me to be a full time professor.” 

Julian’s voice was trained too well to break. Still, the statement ended at a higher pitch than it had begun. The silence of the office pulled and strained—like a string drawing taught in the hands of an over enthusiastic student. Julian laughed, and let the sharp note of his disbelief fill the silence instead. 

“Szymon. You want me to teach? I know that the years are getting on you, but surely this isn’t the answer. I can pick up a few classes as an adjunct—I already have, for the past year, but you know that I can’t write a song for my life. Imagine learning from a bard who couldn’t carry an audience on anything by folk songs and tavern drivel!” At this, Julian let out a deep breath, thumbing at the ring on his right hand. “The role of a poet—of a musician—is like that of a cheesecloth. There are a great number of cheeses in this fine world; some more common than others. Each is subject to the workings of the cheese monger’s cotton cloth—but it is a surety, nonetheless, that a fine, memorable cheese is produced only through the diligent meshing of a sturdy cloth.

“A bard that cannot produce a fine, memorable song, is not worthy of being called a bard, much less a professor. Better to be mute—or to be rid of an instrument entirely. There is no point—to any of it, if I cannot carry a song of my own.”

Julian bowed over, shoulders sinking with conclusion of his long winded diatribe. Then he slumped, falling into the chair before Szymon’s desk with the grace of a drunken ferryman. From the chair, rose his voice once more, unbidden and a great deal wearier than before.

“You must think me some great fool. Comparing cheesecloths to bards. As if the sweetness of song could be captured in such a metaphor–” 

“I don’t believe you a fool.”

The professor—Szymon—bent under his desk to reach for the handle of a bronze carafe. Along with it, he produced two cups, both of which were promptly filled with wine. Julian, who only now straightened in his seat, looked up as he was proffered a cup.

Szymon drank deeply from the cup that he had reserved as his own. “I would not offer you this position if I did not believe you worthy of it.” He raised a hand, asking for Julian to listen. “You have been my student for three years now. In all this time, I have never repudiated you—nor have I discouraged you in your attempts to craft a song”—his lips drew up in a smile—“not even, perhaps, when I should.” 

The memory of an enraged steward and the scathing ditty that had followed was a matter best left forgotten. Julian stifled a chuckle, leaning into the back of the chair. Szymon continued, unprompted, falling into a professorial cadence.

“A bard’s magic is in his song. It is a thing that swords and axes cannot fell—a force that kings and sorcerers alike are powerless to destroy. It unclenches the fist of the miser; curries strength into the limbs of a weary traveler; loosens the grip of a soldier’s wary hand. In the rarest of cases, it will become a magic all its own—beyond the imaginings of even the strongest or most clever of wizards. 

“These bards, as you well know, shape the course of history. They can sing the dead to life—can inflict madness and righteousness in equal measure. It is in the honor of such powers that kingdoms of this Continent reserve the position of a court bard.” 

At this, he paused to take another pull of wine. 

“It is not because I expect you to live up to such storied reputations that I tell you this. I offer you this position now because it is a courtesy that I ought to offer—with the beginning of a new term and a new intake of students, ready to ply themselves at the study and creation of music.

“I know that you are subject to duties and desires that I, in my long years, have never entertained.”—he placed a letter, its wax seal broken, into Julian’s hands—“But from one artist to another—as an acknowledgement of your talent and skill—I offer this position so you know there will always be a place for you at Oxenfurt. As a student, as a professor, and as my friend.”

It was a beautiful speech, as eloquent as a master of music and prose might imagine. Julian, having heard all this, took a belated sip of wine from his own cup and began to cry. 

Chapter Text

Valdo was waiting in the courtyard when Julian finally came down. By this time, the sun had already passed its peak. The statue of a nymph, which took up the center of the stone yard, was cast into shadow. The other poet studied it with an odd intensity. In the slanting shadows, he cut a striking figure—but Julian’s eyes caught the crooked hemming on his blue overcoat all too well. The fashion that Valdo was imitating had fallen out in the past year or so—but who was he to dissuade the other from his ignorance?

“So,” he began. “Szymon offered you the position as well.”

“So he did,” remarked Valdo. He paused, considering, and when he spoke again, it was in address to the nymph. “I intend to take him up on the offer. The beginning of the term is in three weeks, and I think that the chancellor will approve my choice of classes. In a year, perhaps two, I will have established my integrity as a musician enough to petition the smaller lords and nobles of Cidaris and Novigrad—if my performance is to their liking, perhaps I’ll even be welcomed to court.”

Finally, he glanced at Julian—looking him up from head to toe. From any other man, Julian might have considered it flirtatious. From Valdo, there was nothing but light disdain. 

“I cannot comprehend why Szymon would offer you the same. There’s little enough for you to gain by pursuing this path—why continue to make a fool of yourself in the local taverns when lands and titles await?”

Julian’s mood soured—as if the day had not been trying enough! He settled against one of the stone arches encircling the courtyard. In the same motion, he reached into his breast pocket and retrieved a letter—folded onto itself in quarters.

“I see that you’ve been reading my correspondence again,” he said, briskly. “Which, by the way, is rather rude. I don’t suppose I could kindly ask you to stop—” 

“I would be all too glad to ignore your correspondence,” said Valdo, with narrowed eyes. “If you didn’t seem so keen on ignoring it yourself, I would hardly have reason to deal with the letterman when he’s going around knocking at your door—surely I have some right to read through your correspondence, when it makes itself my problem as well?”

Julian rolled his eyes, unfolding the letter with an exaggerated slowness. 

“King Vizimir, then—as you already well know—would humbly request that I remember my duties and return home. Of course, I doubt that this is in Vizimir’s own hand. More likely his wife, the lovely Hedwig of Malleore—Mother always did have a tendency of making friends with the other ladies…” 

With a great sigh, he tucked the letter back into his breast pocket.

“Perhaps she thought that seeing the royal seal of Redania would frighten me into compliance. I pretend not to know the whims of women—outside of the sheets, that is—but you would think that a mother knows better than to meddle in the grand affairs of destiny. Especially when destiny herself has been rather clear.”

Valdo’s scowl deepened. “Your affairs are your own,” he finally said. “But Oxenfurt is hardly a safe place to outrun them forever—Szymon might favor you, for the time being, but the same can hardly be said of the chancellor, when he begins to receive missives penned under the name of King Vizimir the Second. Make a decision—and soon. Any matter can be considered a laughing matter before it ends with chains.”

Two women stood by a table in the kitchen quarters of Oxenfurt. The first woman, pudgy and soft of face, kneaded at a roll of dough. The wetted flour stretched and compressed under her persistent touch—with a hum, she passed on the roll to the ashy blonde beside her, who then cut the roll into eighths.  

The pudgy woman dabbed her fingers into a bowl of water. They left a grubby smear on the lip of the bowl—a stain that went unacknowledged as the woman resumed her task of kneading dough.

“Best keep an eye out for the cook’s boy, before these rolls get set out to cool. The sticky fingered whelp! Cook should’a drowned him like a kitten out of the womb—save the rest of us the trouble of tanning that half breed hide.”

The ashy blond tittered. “Don’t be so mean, Dorotka. The boy’s a thief, sure enough, but all boys at his age are thieves. It’s simply a matter of nature. Perhaps he’ll grow out of it with time.”

“Pah,” spat the pudgy woman. “What do you know ‘bout nature? That’s up to them scholars and academics upstairs. All elves are thieves—even the ones that are half human—but ‘long as he keeps those pointed ears under a cap and his fingers out of my rolls, I’ll be content to let it be.”

The two women resumed their task of kneading and cutting dough, and Kasia, from her place by oven, scowled furiously into the fire. Dorotka, who only a few minutes ago, had ushered her into the kitchens with the promise of a sticky sweet bun, bore none of same regard towards Janek—the cook’s bastard son. 

She looked to the warped glass window separating the back quarters of the kitchen from the mess hall. Learned men in stiff over tunics and tabards walked in and out, ears and eyes filled to the brim with talk of their own self importance. But there, slinking just along the edge of the wall, was a spot of color. 

Kasia smiled, told the women her excuses, and then rushed out of the kitchen—two cakes of sugared honey in hand. Julian was looking a tad morose. Even his bright blue silks were looking a bit droopy in the dim firelight of the mess. 

She broke one of her cakes in half, offering up the other half in truce. 

“Valdo was being a dowdy again, so I slipped off to the kitchens instead. You took a while, though—want one?”

He smiled a little before taking the offered sweet. Together, the two walked out toward an unoccupied corner of the mess—hidden behind sacks of flour and other sundry herbs. The smell of thyme, sage, and rosemary filled the air. 

“Valdo is a dowdy,” Julian agreed. “The stiff nosed rat wouldn’t know the difference between his own nest and a fire. I think all the brains on him were thrown out when he was a baby—the only thing he knows is reading other people’s letters and playing the harp.”

Kasia hummed, like what the other adults did when talking to someone upset. Then she popped her half of the sugar cake into her mouth. The remaining cake was shoved into a pocket. Janek would want it later, she knew, and he hardly ever ate right anyway. 

“Tell me a story,” she said. “You were singing one in the tavern, earlier. Sing it to me now.”

Julian chucked a bit. Then he reached forward to ruffle her hair. 

“I don’t have my lute on me, my darling Kasia. As much as I am opposed to denying your artful pleas, I shan’t burden you with the horror of my singing without a lute. You’d run away and never talk to me again.”

“I’d run away and come back in a week,” corrected Kasia. “Sing it anyway. I want to know how it goes.”

Her insistence did the trick, as it so often did. Julian slumped against a sack of flour and patted at the place beside his arm. She sat down and snuggled close, letting the chattering of other academics fade into the mess. 

“It begins with a grindylow,” began Julian, with a hush.

“What’s a grindylow?” she asked.

“It’s a made up creature. You aren’t meant to know what it is—only that it sleeps under the hedgerow and eats the spindle bows of unsuspecting travellers. ”

“That doesn't make sense,” complained Kasia. “What kind of monster eats spindle bows? They’re just pieces of wood and a bit of twine.”

“The kind that also eats young children who ask too many questions,” said Julian, with a sigh. His hand dragged about the sacks of flour, coming up with a dried flower. It had five petals—all bright yellow despite the flour dusted ground. He tucked it into her hair. 

“Perhaps my little lady would prefer a truer tale of dashing adventure—but alas. I find myself with few such tales to tell. There are few muses within the bounds of a city like Oxenfurt. Nymphs, busybodies, and little ladies aplenty—but rare is the taste of true adventure—of the sun whistling at the morn and the tired tramp of feet.”

“So go on an adventure of your own,” said Kasia, getting a little bored. Julian often liked to talk in long words. It was a strange habit, but her father talked in long words, too, and he was Julian’s teacher. Perhaps that was simply what they both did. “Making stuff up isn’t hard.”

“Oh? As the little lady says.”

Kasia sniffed. 

“A brave knight walked upon the nasty grindylow and killed it. ‘Oh foul creature,’ he said. ‘I am the noble Ser Julian. The travellers are tired of your trouble, and it is time that you die.’”

Julian chuckled. “And the grindylow’s name was Valdo Marx?”

“Yes,” she said. “The grindylow’s name was Valdo Marx. And his head made an awful squishing sound as it rolled onto the floor.”

That drew out a laugh. Julian wiped at his eyes. 

“A new adventure, then,” he proposed. “A bard leaves Oxenfurt and goes off to seek a life of adventure. What do you think of that?”

“I think that the bard is being a dowdy,” said Kasia, with a yawn. “He can just stay at Oxenfurt and sing about princesses and monsters instead. Even silly monsters, like that grindylow thing. I don’t think it’s bad.” 

“But a real bard doesn’t need to lie about all that,” tutted Julian. “He writes down what happens. And what happens is so exciting that it’s naturally deserving of a verse. The chicken before the egg, so it goes. Or the egg before the chicken.”

The worried crease between his eyes was back. Kasia didn’t know what to do with it. She searched her pockets, found a wilting dandelion, and tucked it behind his ear. He smiled at that, but it was a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. 

“That’s the rub of it, isn’t it? Chickens and eggs. Eggs and hens. Roosters coming back to the roost.” He ruffled her hair once more, and the flower he’d tucked into it earlier fell out. 

“Let’s get you back to Szymon,” he said, finally. “Your father is a good man—a master bard if his accolades are to be believed. He’s bound to know plenty of songs with both princesses and monsters. If you ask him nicely, I’m sure he’ll play you a few.”

“He always wants to sing about the moon,” complained Kasia, but Julian was already walking away. She followed. From behind, the two left the sounds of laughter and chatter, students gambling their life’s savings and the scent of freshly baked bread rising into the night.

Chapter Text

Two weeks before the start of the spring term, Julian bought passage on a small merchant galley headed up the Pontar River. The captain was a mild mannered man. He ran a small service on the side, shipping wool and highly taxed grain upriver into a number of smaller ports and cities. His wife, the lovely Irenka, oversaw his every action—keeping the records and accounts in a strict and uncompromising hand. 

She had a round face and lustrous brown hair. Julian’s first encounter with her ended with a tumble in between the sheets. He’d needed to sneak out of the captain’s quarters afterwards—a stumbling, pitch black affair that was better left forgotten—but in the following days, his meals were provided with no question of fare, so he simply plucked at his lute and let the issue lie. 

Julian landed in Rinde with twelve crowns, a hundred or so orens, and a handful of farthings—leftover from his time as a student at Oxenfurt. In his breast pocket was a letter, signed in the name of Vizimir the Second, and on the finger of his right hand was a ring of signum manus. The letter was folded inside a larger sheet of parchment—one that declared him a graduate of Oxenfurt and a Master of the Seven Liberal Arts. 

In Rinde, Julian exchanged six of his crowns for ducats. The farthings he spent on a set of fine crow feather quills, and a handful of orens paid for room and board at the local inn. 

The innkeeper had taken notice of the lute he carried on his back. A little haggling, and Julian managed to bargain for both his dinners and an afternoon meal—conditional on his performance at night.

In Rinde, Julian broke from his usual repertoire. He played a few crowd pleasers—silly tavern songs that roused the drunks and tired farmers into a jolly mood. He sang about sloped wooden eaves, the reflections of human faces on the water’s edge, and the sharp beauty of a woman who controlled her husband like a doll. 

He sang about the mayor’s daughter, sneaking off at night to meet with a blacksmith twice her age, and then, when the muttered discontent became too loud, switched to a different melody and sang about a princess locked in a tower instead. The tale involved a dowdy prince falling on his head climbing up, and a travelling bard who spared the man the trouble of his own embarrassment by singing the princess back to life—because the tower had been closed around all the way, and the princess had already died years and years ago, because there wasn’t any food. 

Eventually, he got just deep enough in his cups to brave a ballad on the imaginary bedroom prowess of the innkeeper’s wife, and found himself abruptly short of a room, a meal, and in possession of a doublet thoroughly ruined by a tumble into muddy waters of the Pontar. 

The water wasn’t quite as lovely at a close inspection—cold and full of muddied silt. Julian spent the better part of the evening fishing the rest of his belongings from the river, placing each piece of his water stained life back onto the grassy shore.

His lute was streaked with mud and needed a thorough cleaning. The letter, signed by King Vizimir the Second, was rather thoroughly waterlogged. The same was true for the parchment declaring Julian a Master of the Seven Liberal Arts—though he felt little like one, wading through an inky black river in search of clothes that had, by now, likely drifted all the way back to Oxenfurt. 

By now, it was probably the start of the spring term. Valdo was probably being his usual fussy self. Szymon would be lecturing a new batch of students, and Kasia sneaking around the kitchens with her half-elf friend.

With only the whispering grass as his companion, Julian sat at the edge of the river and wondered if the events of the past few days would ever qualify as an adventure worthy of song. Perhaps, in a couple of years, when the ignominy of his current situation was naught but a memory—but for now, Julian was wet, and cold, and without even the creature comforts of a fire and a bed. 

He scrubbed at the polished wood of his lute in the dark—perhaps it was still salvageable, if he wick away the moisture fast enough. 

With nothing much else to do, Julian sat at the edge of the river, composing sonnets on the bitter hospitality of insecure inkeeps and a vengeful water spirit, rising from the river to take its due. In the meantime, what else was there, but to wait for the sun to rise?

At the westernmost edge of Aedirn stood one of the greatest fortresses of the Northern Kingdoms. Once fought over by each of the four kingdoms bordering the Pontar River, Hagge was currently claimed by King Demavend—garrisoned by Aedirn troops and used to to enforce the border between Aedirn and Temeria. 

Under the shadow of this massive fortress lay the rest of the Pontar Valley, and it was along the edge of a small road leading through the valley that a troupe of roaming bandits set up camp. Their leader was a rough looking man with cruel eyes and a sharp nose. The skin of his forehead was smooth and unwrinkled, and he laughed a jolly laugh as his men pawed through the meager contents of their latest quarry. 

“I say that we make the most of our evening entertainment. He’s got the lute—let’s hear a song!”

The group of brigands gathered in a loose circle, with a pit fire smoking merrily between them, and a bard tied to the base of a tree. The bard in question was wearing a dust stained blue doublet. His lute lay only a few feet away, looking a bit dented and quite certainly out of reach. 

“Oh, come off your high asses. You want a performance, you can have a performance—but at least do me the favor of cutting my hands free. How am I supposed to play like this? The entire premise of the question is unfair!”

Julian quite suddenly pressed his head as far back as the tree would allow. One of the men, an ugly bastard with yellowing teeth, had drawn a dagger—the pointy end of which was now lightly resting over Julian’s throat. 

“Ah. Well . What I meant to say was that…” 

A swindly looking man in the back cackled.

“Oh, stop playing with him, Olek. Let the man have his lute and play a song. There’s no use in capturing a pretty bird if we just tie it to a tree—pretty birds are supposed to sing . No good if you cut out his tongue too early.”

Olek, the breathtakingly ugly, scowled and undid the knots tying Julian’s wrists together. By now, they had already gone numb. The bard shook them several times before daring to reach for his lute—fingers slow and unsteady. 

“Alright,” swallowed Julian, brushing a light sheen of dust off the polished wooden knobs of his lute. You want a song. What… kind of song do you want to hear? A lovely ballad on the stench of Olek’s teeth? Perhaps a ditty on the rough and tumble of the open road?”

The group’s sharp nosed leader drew forward—eyes bright with an unnerving glee.

“I’ve heard a lot of things about you minstrel types. You flit from town to town, singing the same set of tunes… promising merriment and good fortune to any innkeep that’ll let you stay the night.” He drew a patronizing finger down the side of Julian’s face—the chill look in his eyes colder than even the rough calluses of the man’s touch. “I want to see some magic out of you, tonight—and if the stories are true, I’ll even think about letting you go tomorrow.” 

The man’s voice lilted, and when he stood, it was in address to the entire circle of loosely gathered brigands. 

“It’s bad luck to earn the ire of a bard, or so that say. Sing us a song! Show us why. Go on, now. Sing .”

Julian cleared his throat, trying in vain to dislodge the hard pit of dread that had balled up in his chest. The damn lute had never dried right after its brief dip in the Pontar, and the wood casing had warped enough that the sound of the instrument turned airy and flat—no matter his attempts to adjust the tautness of the stings.

He looked up at the sharp nosed face of the bandits’ leader. The fellow was scary looking even without the blessing of a tall stature and an intimidating musculature. There was no name for him to associate that face with—nothing but the yellow stained teeth of Olek and the humiliation of losing his last remaining of his money to bandits. 

So he sang about a little boy with a bird’s beak growing up in the shadow of Hagge, and another little boy who drank too much beer and got a little cross eyed and foul mouthed at an early age. 

The two boys wanted to become soldiers at a nearby garrison, but on their very first watch, managed to tumble off the edge of the rampart and hit every single stone in the valley on their way down. 

That part was funnier in verse than it was in song. And it was definitely funnier to Julian than it was to his audience. By now, both Olek and the leader seemed to be catching on to the hidden meaning of his song, so he shook loose a leaf that had managed to get stuck in his sleeve, and transitioned mid stanza into the pre-chorus of a different song. 

This one was about a runtish rock troll that woke up one day and decided that it wanted to be a human. It got along far enough to clothe itself in the trousers of a dead dwarf before it was caught, pants down, by the rest of the dwarven party. From there, picks and chisels did the work of parting its head from its body, and to this very day, it was said that you could find a half dressed stone torso, running about the woods. 

As long as he kept singing, they couldn’t do anything. It was a strained and ragged hope, but Julian held to it nonetheless. He kept singing. And song after song after song, he strung together without pause for doubt. 

He sang about the cold embrace of the Pontar river on a moonless night, and the lung hacking dust of the roads south of Ellander. Winding down now, he transitioned into a raucous listing of all the monsters that you might encounter along the wild paths—gremlins and goblins and a whole pack of nekkers, eager to feast on the flesh of dishonest men. 

He sang until the bandits grew tired of their sneers and their rocks—at least his performances in Oxenfurt had prepared him for that—and as the night finally turned to day, he fell asleep with his fingers still tangled up in the strings of his lute. 

In the morning, the bandits were gone. There was a bloody streak running down the length of a nearby tree—and a foul stench filled the air like a fetid pig set to roast. Julian found a few silver pennies strewn over a patch of trampled grass nearby, and with one last look at the campsite, disorderly and devoid of people, took his fortunes as they were, and turned to walk down the road.

Chapter Text

In the very eastern reaches of Aedirn, creeping up along the base of the Blue Mountains, was a stretch of land called the Valley of Flowers. In the spring, when the rains were generous, it was possible to find a large swathe of blooms along its sloping shoulders; from foxglove to fennel to fieldrush—though the most common of these blossoms was easily the humble daisy. 

The elves that had first settled this valley called it Dol Blathanna. They built their cities on the sides of mountains and all along the heads of rocky spires—though much of that had, by now, fallen into disrepair. The remaining settlements were settled by humans, and the whimsical outstretch of wooden towers and spiralling stairs were the only remaining sign of their previous hosts. 

Julian fell in love with the whimsy of these pillared villages after only a day and a night. The day he’d spent walking through a steep series of switchbacks. When the sun set and the steep shadows of the valley made themselves known, he’d pushed forward—almost stumbling off the edge of a cliff twice before he reached the first bridge leading to Posada. After that, it was only a matter of a warm bath and a fresh laundry—and Julian had fallen in love. Perhaps that love was more transactional than true—the residents were certainly more enamored by the shine of Julian’s silver pennies than they were to the sound of his voice—but that was a fault that could be overlooked. 

For in Posada, there was a witcher. He sat in the corner of the tavern, nursing a tankard of ale. Even in the dull light coming through the window, his features were unmistakable—white hair, yellow eyes, and two very scary swords. They were each heavier than any weapon that Julian had ever held in his near twenty years walking the continent—and Julian knew, before he’d even consciously made the decision to approach the table, that he had to get a story out of this . 

“Why you, there! You’re a monster hunter, aren’t you?” Julian clasped his hands together. “You must have some review for me. Three words or less! More is fine, too—I can tell you now that you are perfectly welcome to regale me with tales of your adventures at any time you are so inclined. Hopefully some time in the next century—preferably before I die.”

The witcher’s eyebrows—why, they were also white!—drew together in consternation. Clearly he didn’t appreciate the offer of a listening ear as much as Julian would’ve thought. 

“Oh. Come now. No need to just sit there and brood. You’ve obviously more worldly experience in your left pinky toe than I’ve ever managed to acquire in all my time on the road. Spare the bard a moment of your time. You won’t regret it. I swear!”

“None of the creatures in your songs exist.”

Julian shook his head, glancing once towards the awfully flat looking purse that laid on the table between them. Maybe monster hunting didn’t pay well, or maybe it had simply been a long time in between contracts. Either way, Julian had gotten his hands on some review. Now was the time to engage with his critic in a meaningful discussion. 

“Perhaps they do, perhaps they don’t. If they exist in the minds of men, then isn’t that a kind of existence, on its own? True monsters may exist—I have no doubt that they do. Men like you face them on a daily basis, after all. But then who’s to account for all the monsters that people invent?

The witcher—and Julian was beginning to think that there was a name associated with this particular set of features, now—slowly got up and reached for his purse. From its upturned edge dropped a single coin, landing flat on the face of the table. A man of action and few words, it seemed; the witcher pocketed his empty purse and left.  

So that was the way it was going to be. 

“White hair—yellow eyes. I know who you are.” He called out after the witcher as he walked away. “You’re Geralt of Rivia. The Butcher of Blaviken.”

No response. Julian went back and took the coin—a single ducat, printed with the visage of some Aedirnian king. It was the witcher— Geralt’s —last coin and he’d left it to Julian—surely that had to mean something?

He headed after the Geralt, just quick enough to overhear the plea of a stooping farmer and the witcher’s acceptance of a contract. Something about devils and stolen grain—already, this was shaping up to be quite the adventure—and it had only been a scant few minutes since he’d first spotted the man’s brooding profile in the corner of a tavern. 

Julian walked past the farmer—an apology already half formed in his mind. 

“Look,” he said. “I get what you mean. A good story is always in need of some excitement, but that’s no excuse to fib. And I agree—maybe real adventures would make for better stories. You’re a witcher. You must go on exciting adventures all the time. Let me come with you. I promise that I can be useful—if quiet is what you really want, then just say the word, and I won’t be but silent backup.”

A hum. But it sounded kind of cheery? There were a few more seconds of silence. Julian admitted defeat. 

“So maybe I’m not so good at the quiet bit—but maybe I could be your barker! That way, the entire point is to not be silent. A better utilization of my talents, I think. I get to talk, you have someone to manage your public image. The only downside is me. Two birds, one stone! What do you say to that?”

Another hum. But this one was accompanied by a barely discernible mutter. 

“One bird, ten stones,” was what it sounded like. 

But still, Geralt slowed the pace of his horse so that he could keep up. From a man who liked the sound of his own voice as much as a cuckold loved his wife, it was as loud a statement as any. His last coin, and now the forbearance of Julian’s slower pace. If one pretended he was a mute, then the man’s actions were unmistakably overflowing with generosity! 

Julian followed with a smile, sure that this moment was but the beginning of a long and wonderful song. 

Chapter Text

The afternoon sun was harsh and bright on the road leading out from Posada. Trees and greenery thinned into well tended fields of rye and barley. Here, at the floor of the valley, the landscape was smooth and relatively flat—occasionally interrupted by the rocky pillars that were common to this region.

Geralt of Rivia had visited Posada, once. It was a very long time ago, in human years. The king of Aedirn was still Vifuril, then, and he, a much younger witcher, travelling south from Kaer Morhen and down along the Blue Mountains. The village itself had changed little, but the fields extending out into the valley had only grown broader. Now, they took up the entire expanse of the lower valley—yellow gold under the persistent glare of the afternoon sun.

The bard travelling behind him seemed enamored by the sight—composing little couplets on the plentiful bounties of the valley. As they walked, he reached down to pluck small purple flowers, blooming on the side of the road. 

“Three words or less,” laughed the bard, suddenly and quite out of the blue. “Don’t you think it’s a bit funny that all your names are exactly that?” He counted them off his fingers, flowers still in hand. “Geralt of Rivia. Butcher of Blaviken. Do you choose them that way, or do they just come to you naturally? Like everything else that comes with being a witcher?”

“Names aren’t always given to you by choice,” said Geralt. “And witchers are made, not born. Nothing about it has to do with choice.”

The bard hummed, undeterred.

“But say you did have a choice. What kind of name would you prefer? Geralt of Rivia is alright on its own—rolls right off the tongue. The same could be said of Butcher, though that’s just a play on the alliterative properties of Butcher and Blaviken. The White Haired Witcher, perhaps? Or maybe the White Wolf, after that medallion that you keep on your neck?”

“Witcher works well enough for most,” replied Geralt, pulling gently at the reins of his horse, Roach. The brown mare obliged him with a soft nicker, letting him guide her off the road and towards a cluster of earthen mounds, vaguely obscured by a dry thicket of grass.

The bard followed him off the path. 

“Ah. Yes. I suppose it does. But all the same, names do have power. And they can be chosen. Why, I chose the name that I wanted to live by before I even left Oxenfurt! Jaskier, I said to myself. One day he’ll be the greatest bard on the Continent. The kings will invite him to all their feasts, and his songs will echo through the halls of taverns and castles alike.” 

Geralt turned around and looked the other man up and down. Jaskier, for all his eloquence and supposed education, had still ended up travelling alongside a witcher, somewhere on the easternmost edge of the world. His doublet and lute were both weary with dust—and before he’d found reason to chase after a witcher, he’d been pocketing the stale bread thrown at him from off the floor. 

Geralt had seen enough of bards and minstrels in his time to know that they were all the same. They came through villages and towns, all claiming the same set of powers. A song here and there: to lighten up the mood, quicken travel, make sure that a sword swung right and true. The words changed between regions, just as the folk traditions of each land swapped names—but they were all fundamentally the same, with little power and little sway. 

The bards that took up residence at court were even worse—ten times more likely to posture at some kind of mythical, mystical power. Bards of any true power were rare—Geralt had never met one in person, though he knew the legends and occasionally came across their work. Indeed, were it not for the exceptionally tricky and often overdramatic clauses of bardic curses, he would hardly believe in their magic at all. The Brotherhood of Sorcerers certainly scorned them enough—though the Brotherhood had a proven history of scorning any who dared contest their power in court.

Jaskier, even by the most generous of labels, was not a successful bard. He was fair enough with his instrument and his voice, but his songs were dismal—without even the slightest hint of power behind them. 

“Yes,” said Jaskier. “I see that look on your face. You don’t believe me. You think that I’m a talentless wastrel, too stubborn to give up—but can it really be too much to ask for? To write a single successful song?” He fingered the flowers in his hands, plucking off petals like a butcher plucking the feathers off a chicken.

“The devil and a witcher, fighting it out at the edge of the world. And a humble bard who just so happened to tag along for the journey. Maybe that’ll do it. Maybe people will like that better than silly songs about Old Nan and her flying broom, or fish the size of men—but maybe I’ve just so happened to stumble across the opportunity of a lifetime, only to find that this is just another one of those creatures that doesn’t exist!”

Jaskier was breathing deeply now, coming down from his tirade with a fistful of purple flowers. 

For the first time, Geralt took notice of them—of the five petalled blossoms and their dark, violet throats. It was feainnewedd, a kind of flower that only grew in the presence of spilled Elder blood. He caught his breath, then cast his eyes towards the cluster of earthen mounds just ahead and their now abnormally quiet thicket of grass. 

Jaskier followed his gaze, to the pair of curling horns just visible over the top of the greenery. Then his eyes widened—excitement and wonder filling his expression like water flooding the empty cracks of a vase.

“Why, Geralt!” he gasped. The devil does exist.” He stepped forward, muttering now, with words meant only for himself. “I have to see this with my own eyes. This mythical, magical, magnificent— ”

There was a woosh of air and a loud metallic thud. Jaskier dropped to the ground like a puppet with its strings suddenly cut. 

The horns in the thicket bobbed. Geralt left the bard behind and crept closer. His hand strayed to the hilt of his silver sword. If this was a monster, then it was one intelligent enough to use weapons—though perhaps not quite intelligent enough to recognize that, between a witcher and a bard, the witcher was the far greater threat. 

The tension in the air stretched thin. 

The horned creature charged. Geralt was thrown back, landing on hard packed dirt. He recovered quickly; the next charge he caught. The goat legged creature—a Sylvan—landed heavily on its side. Geralt pinned it down with an arm, the other drawn back to ready a blow.

“Fuck —off!” The Sylvan struggled, trying to loosen Geralt’s hold. “Whatever those fucking villagers said I did, I didn’t do it. And if I did, then they deserved it anyway!”

“So you talk,” remarked the witcher. 

“Of course I talk! What did you think I was? A mountain goat? I’m a sylvan, you stupid bastard— Torque the Sylvan!—not a bloede d'yaebl, like you all you ignorant fuckers think I am!”

One of Torque’s arms flailed loose. He seized at a lock of the witcher’s white hair and pulled.

Geralt grunted, then struck the sylvan across the nose. Torque fell back, dazed.

“You’re not a devil,” agreed the witcher. “You’re a right fucker, is what you are—but you are intelligent, and I don’t make a habit of killing creatures that can talk back. All the villagers want is for you to disappear. Leave this place behind.” 

“That’s not your call, witcher—” and here, Torque’s features twisted into a grotesque leer. “—this land isn’t yours. Dol Blathanna belongs to no man, or witcher. Here, you are the one that doesn’t belong.”

Geralt heard the rustling of the brush before he saw it. All the same, the blow struck the back of his head—powerful enough to send the Sylvan’s face streaking into spotty stars. He fell forward, and by the time his unseen assailant struck a second blow, the witcher knew no more.

Geralt woke up to the dry, dusty scent of rock and the sound of conversing voices. It was the bard, Jaskier—speaking in some kind of tongue that was decidedly not Common. Elder, perhaps? Geralt had never studied other languages enough to truly learn them; the bestiaries from Kaer Morhen had occasionally referenced older texts and obscure phrases, but that was no substitute for a higher education. He perhaps recognized one word in twenty of the conversation currently taking place. 

His arms were bound, tightly secured—and, judging by the solid weight of another back to his own—tied to the bard.  

He opened his eyes and found himself in a cave, sparsely furnished and roughly hewn. His swords lay out of reach, on a makeshift table on the far edge of the room. There were two elves present. One was female, red hair falling in a long plait down her back; the other, a male with a square jaw and a knife strapped to his belt. There was a lute in his hands—Jaskier’s lute. 

The bard’s attention, however, was entirely focused on speaking to the female. He didn’t seem to be having much luck, judging from her raised cheekbones and thinned lips. Their exchange became snippier. Jaskier rolled his eyes and said something flippant, only to have the elf march forward with a snarl. 

The bard wheezed as he took a booted foot to the face. The ropes that bound him to the witcher pulled taught, and Geralt bared his teeth in a snarl of his own. 

“Leave off! The man’s just a bard.”

“Oh. Good,” said Jaskier—this time in Common—head falling back to settle against the witcher’s shoulder. “Geralt. You’re finally awake. I know that it’s been a long day for you, getting kidnapped and all, but might I point out that now is the time when we escape?”

“Now is the time for you to die,” barked the elf. “You humans are nothing but beasts and murderers. You don’t deserve the air that you breathe, and you certainly don’t deserve your lives, either.” 

This time, the blow was directed at Geralt, who took it with a muffled grunt. As a witcher, his mutations enabled him to take far more of a beating than an ordinary human; it was better he their focus than Jaskier. The elf seemed to recognize this as well. Her strikes against Geralt continued: a closed fist, a foot, and a knee.

In between the starburst of pain that accompanied each blow were Jaskier’s protests, and the jangled, discordant sound of his lute. 

“Fucking humans,” she said. “Stealing our land, killing our people—what’s two more humans in the ground against the deaths of countless Evellienn?”

“You hide away in your mountain caves,” snapped Jaskier. “You beat a bound man, too scared to even look him in the eye—”

He flinched as the elf to the back dashed his lute against a raised knee. Wood splintered. The strings sprang loose with a final, mournful yowl. Even turned away from the bard as he was, Geralt could feel the pain in the other man’s bearing. Perhaps the rumors were true, then—that a musician’s instrument was as precious to him as his life. Geralt was simply lucky that his own swords had fallen out of notice. Good steel was harder to ruin than a piece of polished wood—though the very likely possibility that he’d be killed by his own blade was no less of a cold, juddering comfort.

The next time that the elf came in to strike at him, Geralt reared forward—smashing her forehead against his own.

She fell back, bloodied and coughing. Her companion dropped the remains of Jaskier’s lute to attend to her, and from the back of the cave entered two others: Torque, the Sylvan, and an elf with thin features and blonde hair. He carried himself with the proud air of a monarch, the same across any king and kingdom, in Geralt’s long experience walking the Continent. 

There was no surprise when Torque announced the newcomer as Filavandrel, King of the Elves. Yet just as quickly, Filavandrel rejected the title. 

“I am not king. And it is only by necessity that I have taken on the duties of one. I was born Filavandrel aén Fidháil of the Silver Towers and House of Feleaorn of the White Ships, and it is by this name that I will one day die. Ask me to carry the burdens of my people, and I will do so, but on this, alone, I insist.”

He turned to the fallen elf, whom Torque now tended to with a waterskin. 

“Now, Toruviel. Tell me what has happened here.”

“What is there to explain?” spat Toruviel. “Just two humans that need to be put down like the dogs they are—”

“There’s only one human here,” said Geralt, feeling weary. “And you can let him go. If not out of mercy, then out of common sense. Nobody asks after a witcher, once they are dead and buried, but there are certainly people who will take revenge for him.”

He nodded against Jaskier, feeling the bard tense up along his back. 

“Oh, ho ho,” he laughed, with an uncommon bravado. “Kill either of us, and there’ll certainly be more than just revenge—your precious mountains will be leveled to the ground, your people left with nowhere else to hide. Best let us go now, elf. Haven’t you heard that it’s bad luck to earn the ire of a bard?”

What utter stupidity. The bard was going to get himself killed with a mouth like that—and still, Geralt would be blamed for the mess. Filavandrel’s eyes hardened. He glanced at the splintered remains of Jaskier’s lute. 

“Bad luck,” repeated the King, with eyes as flat and unforgiving as stone. “And yet, what you claim reaches far beyond the boundaries of simple luck. Beyond even the reaches of that primordial chaos—for elves were the original sorcerers of the continent. We worked with humans—taught them all that they know—and still they turned against us, eager to claim such power as their own.

“They look upon us now, from their lofty towers and stone fortresses; magic built on a foundation of our subjugation. Yet they are not the ones who saw the slaughter of our children and called it justice; who have turned the very course of this world against us.”

He knelt, drawing a knife from his belt and resting it against the delicate skin of Jaskier’s throat. Geralt stilled. To his witcher senses, the scent of blood was sharp and bitter. He held his breath, unwilling to press the bard into any further danger.

“Stories and songcraft,” continued Filavandrel. “This is the one power that humans have claimed above all else. They have written a narrative that runs counter to all reason or truth. Your people call it the Great Cleansing. For me, it was seven days and seven nights of grief: these very fields a mass grave for everyone I have ever loved.”

“Our babies, fertilizer for your grain. Our bones, the foundation for your schools of magic. Our blood, the flowers that dot this very land—a bastardization of the valley of flowers that we once called Dol Blathanna.”

“Yn blath que me darienn,” said Jaskier, having gone very still and quiet at Geralt’s back. It was the first thing that he’d dared since the King had set a knife at his throat, and the longest that Geralt had ever known the other man to be silent. “En minne vain tegen a me yn toin av muireánn. Feainnewedd, elaine blath.”

Filavandrel nodded, and his response, when it came, was in Common. “Yes. Elaine Ettariel. An elven ballad—one of few that my people have ever known. Written to the beautiful Ettariel by her human lover, whom she took into her home at the beginning and end of each winter season.”

Jaskier began speaking in earnest now, Elder tumbling from his lips in a discourse that Geralt was no longer able to follow. Here and there, he caught the simple sounds of ‘aen’ and ‘dol,’ which he was beginning to place as something in relation to the valley from which Dol Blathanna took its name. Geralt’s personal knowledge of Elder encompassed a number of phrases for monsters and their anatomical parts. He recognized none of these phrases now, save for the brief mention of ‘gláeddyv,’ or knife, by Jaskier.

Filavandrel, eyes narrowed, drew his blade away from the bard. 

“You make your point known. And yet, I have no reason to trust you or your companion. If the humans find that we have been stealing from them…”

“You expect them to attack,” deduced Geralt. In truth, it was a simple observation. He’d known from the beginning that a Sylvan had been stealing grain. Now, looking at the hollow cheeked elves, he knew why. “It’ll be the death of us now, or the death of many if you let us go. You think that the lesser evil is to kill us both, before the villagers realize that you are here.”

Filavandrel turned to him, considering. Geralt continued, the words clear and bitter. A lifetime of regret burbled up from his chest: the memory of a princess, a tower, and her revenge. It had all gone to shit, then—and the stains of that encounter had haunted him ever since. A moniker best summed up as ‘butcher,’ and best recalled to ‘Blaviken.’    

“I understand the lesser evil,” he said. “Being forced to choose between two impossible choices, but it’s only an illusion of control, in the end. No matter what, you’ll be left bloody—and hating yourself. This, above all else, is certain.”

“So what would you have me do?” asked Filavandrel. “Kill you, and your bard promises revenge. Kill your bard, and the villagers will come after him. Let you go, and have no assurance of either—save an inevitable clash in the future. Better to kill you both and simply be done with it; leave nothing to chance.” 

“Neén,” spoke Jaskier. He jerked at the bonds tying him to Geralt. When that failed to return results, he continued in Elder with a renewed vigor. As Toruviel recovered and stood, his voice took on a more frantic tone. “—I’ll write you a song. A song to last the ages. And like you said. I’m a bard. I have this wonderful, reality altering power at my disposal. I’m famous, among the humans; I’ve played in the court of King Vizimir and King Demavend. If you only give me the opportunity, I can change the way that history remembers you. It doesn’t have to be like this—”

Filavandrel said nothing. Geralt knew that Jaskier was lying, now. He was no famous bard. He was just a runaway from Oxenfurt, who aspired towards something greater—only to fall face first into the uncaring embrace of reality. And yet he couldn’t fault the bard for his lies. Men had died in worse ways. Geralt himself had made peace with his death long ago. 

“You can’t possibly believe that he’s telling the truth,” exclaimed Toruviel. “Once the humans find out that we’re here, they’ll attack, and many will die—no matter the intervention of a bard’s pretty song.”

“This isn’t the way that things have to be,” repeated Jaskier. 

And the King made his decision. 

Chapter Text

The sun was setting, now. It cast long shadows all along the valley—leaching the color and brightness from the land as it went. A little ways off a dusty road sat two men and a horse, with only a small campfire and an empty pack between them. 

The first man wore all black, and on his lap rested one of two swords. His hands moved in a steady, rhythmic motion as he ran a whetstone down the length of the blade. Even against the darkening valley, his white hair stood out—like a silver penny catching the light from within a hoard of rusting gold. 

His companion had found a seat on a nearby stone, a small flush of purple flowers growing out around him. Straddled against his knee was a lute. His fingers twitched every now and then, but he made no move to touch the strings. There was a frustrated silence in the way that his shoulders were set; a kind of melancholy that made its home in the half remembered moments just before night.

“Geralt. My dearest witcher. Did I ever tell you why I left Oxenfurt to become a bard?”

The witcher, still engrossed in his task of polishing steel, hummed. 

“Ah. Well,” answered the bard. “It’s not a tale that you’ll hear from anyone but myself. Perhaps certain people will say that I ran off to chase my death. I know for certain that there’s a fellow who would say that I ran away from my responsibilities—though I know enough about myself to say that’s not entirely true.”

He drew a folded sheet of parchment from the breast pocket of his doublet; worried at it absentmindedly, and carefully set his fingers still. 

“I left so that I could find something exciting to sing about. Because even if it took a dip in the Pontar, and a rather undignified robbery, and a whole lot of stale bread and tavern tankards—I told myself that it would be worth it, in the end, when I found a piece of genuine adventure to tack down into song. But dammit, Geralt. A witcher, a devil, and a whole band of elves—I’ll have to write a song about this now, but everything I can think of is shit.

“Then you’ve chosen a poor profession,” said Geralt, from his place by the fire. Jaskier looked up, mouth pulling into a bitter smile.

“I respect Filavandrel, you know. He’s survived the Great Cleansing, and he’s still got enough of his wits about him to lead his people. Perhaps he’ll even survive what comes, should anything come of our return to Posada.”

Geralt simply hummed. Perhaps the elven king would learn and adapt from the past, or perhaps he would crumple under the weight of his pride. Few people, elven or otherwise, insisted on being addressed through their full set of titles and names. Even, or especially, when those titles held nothing but half remembered respect. 

Jaskier tucked the parchment back into his doublet. He was silent, for a moment. Then he reached down, to the lute against his knee. He plucked at the strings, and coaxed out a slow and perfect note. It rang in the still air of the valley, and in the hush of grass that surrounded them, it seemed as if all the world was listening.

“A gift from the King of Elves,” he said, finally. “They’ll never believe it.”

“In the end, it won’t matter what you, or anyone else says,” said Geralt. “People will believe what they want.”

“Oh? And what about the say of a bard, with the ability to reshape the very strands of reality? I did say that I was one, to Filavandrel, you know. Maybe he even believed me—it’s hard to say, what with the warm welcome that we received.”

“You’re not that kind of bard.”

“No,” murmured Jaskier. “I’m not. But maybe I will be. A bard’s magic is in his song, after all. If I write one, and it turns out to be exceptionally popular, perhaps I’ll have attained that power, after all.”

He turned over the lute in his hands, fingers brushing down its polished sides. There was no more music from him that night, and somewhere in the wee hours of the morning, the bard came to a decision of his own.

Chapter Text

The path leading out of Posada ambled between steep switchbacks and flowering flatland. Julian remembered walking this path when he’d first entered Dol Blathanna, though it had been dark then, and significantly more treacherous. Now, under the broad light of the sun, the dangers of the road laid themselves bare before him: an outcropping of unsteady rock, a twisted bit of root—even the rustle of an unfamiliar animal, as it trundled through the bush. 

The other significant difference was that he now travelled with a witcher. Geralt was sure footed and steady. He walked at a pace that easily consumed distance—in a way that demonstrated more than just simple familiarity on the road. His horse, Roach, followed him without question, never more than a pace or two behind. She was a loyal mare, though a tad grumbly with anyone that wasn’t Geralt.

Julian had tried to pet her exactly once—only for the witcher to snap out a quick reprimand before the horse could take off one of his fingers. He’d kept his hands to himself, after that. A bard’s livelihood was in his musical ability. The indignity of having his career castrated by a horse was second only to the indignity of the song that would inevitably result. 

They stopped a few times along the path, and it was on one such of these stops that Julian brought out the ducat that Geralt had first left him in Posada. 

“Here,” he said, tossing the coin across the distance. “A token of my appreciation, for seeing me through all that. I know that it couldn’t have been easy—what with the devil, and then the elves. But you haven’t left me for dead yet, even though I have a habit of running my mouth.”

Geralt clasped a gloved hand to his studded leather shirt. The coin rested there, caught between the gleam of sunlight and the witcher’s hold. 

“You gave away all your coin from the contract, after all. And I did say that I’d try to manage your public image a little. So give me a chance to at least try.”

Julian brought out the elven lute and settled his fingers on the strings. It had been a rather tumultuous few days, he knew. The adventure of a lifetime, and the beginning of something momentous, if only he could find the right words to fix into song. 

But the right words didn’t exist. And a quest for perfect authenticity would never sell. 

So he sang about a humble bard, and a witcher, coming together for an adventure on the edge of the world. He sang about a bold battle between a white wolf and a silver tongued devil, and the dastardly tricks that the horned villain and his army of elves employed. 

He was midway into the transition to a chorus when the witcher spoke up. 

“That’s not how it happened,” said Geralt. “Where’s your newfound respect for the elves?”

The bard plucked a few chords, letting the music fill in the silence. 

“Respect doesn’t make history.”

So Julian continued to sing: of coins, and witchers, and a plentiful valley closed in by mountains on both sides. He sang about a witcher and his quest to aid ordinary people—to push back the monsters that threatened humanity, and his triumph over the forces of evil. 

By the end of the first stanza, he knew that he had managed to stumble into something grand. By the end of the first verse, he could feel the power settling in though the music, and by the end of the first chorus, he knew that he’d been right to describe his initial meeting with Geralt as the beginning of a long and wonderful song. 

It was the beginning of something, alright. A story for the ages, and he but the humble chronicler empowered to chart out its course. 

Above the two men, the sun wheeled in its course over the sky. Shadows stretched, the animals fell still, and insects hummed a steady buzz. The witcher continued to walk down his path, and Julian followed, leaving music and the still chords of history in his wake.

Fin.