Chapter Text
A squarish face framed by delicate golden curls, little earrings that glittered in the candlelight, her jade dress harking to glinting eyes. Like a ghost she had appeared in the doorway, guards stiffening in attention, and she paused for only a moment before she entered.
Each confident step she took into the large hall echoed in the crowded space. Silent now were the once bustling maids who’d been pouring ale until they sloshed out of their chalices. Dancers now motionless. Noblemen’s flirtations quieted. The feast was overtaken by a spell, suspended in time, except for her. She glided up the dais and turned to fluidly to sit on the throne.
It was Jaskier who broke free of the silence first, slinging his lute behind his back and bowing in one swift motion.
“My Lady Cecilia, may I say that it is an honor to play for you this evening. You bless us with your presence.”
Queen Cecilia’s mouth quirked in the beginnings of a smile, as she gave the bard a small nod.
“I thank you. I am glad that I invited you here, bard. You’ve brought much needed cheer to my court.”
Jaskier bowed again, the formality of court etiquette second nature.
Once, many years ago, he would have been scolded by his mother for his audacity in addressing the queen. But that had been many moons past, back when he had still been fresh with adolescence, searching for answers to questions he did not know. Before he had left his mother and his father for the wonders of Oxenfurt, before his sordid love affair with music, before the never ending joys of the road.
Before Geralt.
The green eyed queen nodded at the silent crowd, and it was as if a bubble burst, tension snapping slack. Suddenly the hall exploded back to life, laughter rising once more, the cacophony of clinking platters and dinnerware returning.
Jaskier turned from Queen Cecilia, strumming a few new chords. The whole hall did not quiet as it had upon the entrance of its lady, but instead rose to meet the familiar melody. His trademark song, the one that had launched him into the annals of bardic history, the one that he had written with a secret recipe. A cup of anger, two cups of righteousness, and (the secret) only a pinch of ambition.
He caught the queen’s eye during the peaking toss a coin. She was smiling a soft smile, but her emerald eyes were hard. Jaskier felt her suddenly above all others in the packed hall. The icy steel of anger, the coldness of regret, the bitter sadness. Jaskier turned to wink at a nearby noblewoman, who blushed a pretty pink. So this is why he was invited so specifically here from Oxenfurt for the winter, despite the rumbling storm of Nilfgard on the horizon. And he had bragged so loudly to Valdo Marx.
He had realized it too late now. But he wasn’t a sorcerer, he couldn’t read minds, and so much of his gift was up to his interpretation. How was he supposed to know that this was a trap? He hadn’t looked too deeply into the apprehension of the guards who had summoned him, too wrapped up in lording over Valdo. If only Geralt could see him now. He’d probably curse him and call him an idiot. Right now, Jaskier would be inclined to agree with him.
He twirled between tables, voice rising and falling, glancing surreptitiously around for an escape route. There was a small door behind the dais and of course the main entrance through which the queen had entered—both manned by four guards. Jaskier mentally calculated the blows to his dignity if he just booked it through the main door mid-song. But no, that’s not what would get him out of this mess, and just because he realized something was amiss didn’t mean that he had to flee with his tail between his legs. Maybe this could be negotiated peacefully. Maybe he was simply overthinking things.
But as he leaned down to snatch a kiss on his cheek from a nearby courtier during the bridge, he knew to trust his instincts. If traveling with Geralt had taught him nothing else, it was to always err on the side of caution, and he could not deny the flood of evidence invading his mind. A noxious animosity filled the bright hall, and it was focusing upon him, sharpening into a poison needle.
When the last notes had faded into the air, he glanced again at the elegant lady seated upon her throne. With a small wave, she beckoned him, that soft smile remaining on her pale face. With a sudden clarity, Jaskier remembered the courtly gossip. How the queen had lost her husband to a kikimora last fall.
He walked towards the queen, careful to smile and flirt on his way there. Her jade dress shimmered as she crossed her legs beneath it.
“What pleasures you, My Lady?”
A spike of anger, cruel and pitch black, and a thin slice of greed erupted from her. Jaskier nearly flinched. She smiled sweetly. It did not meet her eyes.
“Bard, would you care to tell me about the witcher you travel with? Your songs are so intriguing.”
Ah, so was it revenge against Geralt that she wanted? Perhaps for her husband’s death? Jaskier wracked his brain, but he wasn’t sure he and his travel companion had been here that past fall. The reason didn’t really matter. He did not wish to stick around to find out.
“Ah, yes, the White Wolf,” Jaskier chuckled, his hand leaving his lute to brush back his hair. “What do you wish to know of him?”
The queen gestured kindly to a servant boy, who offered Jaskier a cup of wine. The tang of annoyance, but also apprehension. Jaskier took the cup gingerly.
“Would he be willing to come here to deal with several griffins plaguing my countryside? I’ve received several complaints from my farmers.”
That was a lie if he’d ever heard one. Jaskier nodded, holding the cup of wine off to the side, pretending to worry over spilling on his lute.
“I’m sure he would, My Lady, after the winter thaws and allows for travel.”
The queen nodded again, glancing over at Jaskier’s wine.
“Please, have a drink. Do not insult my hospitality so.”
Jaskier gulped. There would be no avoiding it then. It was probably only laced with a sleeping agent. Probably. Maybe. Hopefully.
He took a small sip, smiling painfully at the queen.
She smiled back. A stab of sweet triumph darkened by thick blue determination and a deadly, deep sea green desire. Jaskier bowed, head swimming from both the drug and the dissonance of the queen’s saccharine expression and her aggressive emotions. Whatever she had had him drink was quite fast acting. He needed to leave, but his knees were shaking. His heartbeat was speeding up, faster than a fleeing kikimore.
“Not a patient one, are you, my Lady?” Jaskier slurred, his lute discordant as he reached out to right himself, stumbling forward as his hand met only air.
The queen laughed. It was a cruel thing.
The world blurred, a mix of roaring sound and bright flashes. He was plunged into a sea of emotions, shocking and cold and overwhelming. Trying to surface, he flailed about, but he remained submerged, gasping for relief.
Then blessed darkness.