Chapter Text
~~~
Jaskier was dreaming again. Sometimes it was nice, walking the vaguely familiar halls surrounded by people who knew him, cared for him. He was never alone in his dreams. Boys would drag him away from meals to play games of chase through creeping passages and across open ramparts. He felt younger in his dreams, carefree. This dream though, he had no heart for games and he dreaded the inevitable waking. There’s a fire burning in the hearth and there were arms wrapped tightly around him.
Home.
“You’re ours, Julek. Our heart.” The words are murmured against his skin, a warmth of emotions curling between them to let him know how much they cared for him. Everything that he’d ever wanted, his deepest desire that after chasing it for two decades he had finally realised that it would forever be out of his reach beside these brief imagined moments.
For a brief moment, the keep flickered out of existence to an all too familiar mountainside that he hoped he’d never ever have to set foot on ever again. His worst memory imposing itself over his brief respite from loneliness. Then he was back in that all too familiar keep and there was a boy curled up in his arms crying with him while the faceless others curled around him.
This was meant to be a happy space and Jaskier had ruined it. He ruined everything. Perhaps even these figments of his imaginations would wish him gone if they could.
“Never, Julek.”
Jaskier should wake.
“Sing for us, dear heart.” The boy in his arms asked and Jaskier does. A soft song of hope and better days in a tongue that he didn’t remember learning.
~~~
Waking was as unpleasant as always.
The tiny campfire he’d managed to make the night before had burnt itself out while he’d slept but it hadn’t managed to attract any monsters or bandits so it was perhaps better that his fire making skills were woefully subpar. He hated camping alone but there were only so many days that he could force his body to go without sleep, particularly when his heart yearned to lose itself in his dreams and never wake.
It had been a week since he made his lonely trek down a mountain, firmly in the opposite direction of a certain White Wolf. Jaskier didn’t particularly care about the destination, just letting his feet take him wherever destiny chose to lead him.
Of course the summer was starting to fade and it was getting cooler, particularly this far North. The more logical part of him thought that perhaps he should head south or closer to the coast in search of warmer weather, but he couldn’t. There was something, some instinct, telling him that he needed to stay in the North.
It was lunch time when he stumbled across a horse. Thankfully, no one else was around to see the way that he flailed in surprise after staggering out of a bush to come face to face with the animal. The horse didn’t seem remotely concerned, which somehow made it even more embarrassing. What was a horse doing tied up and happily munching on grass at least a half hour away from any road and a day’s ride from the closest town? But then he looked a little closer at the familiar way that the saddlebags were arranged, the small potion satchel within easy reach while riding and most tellingly, the trophy of some old hunt hanging off one side.
A witcher’s horse.
There’s a flair of irrational panic because his heart felt like it had been flayed alive the last time he’d stood in a witcher’s company and he wasn’t sure that he could handle disgust or disdain being shot in his direction by another pair of golden eyes. Still, he forced his breathing to even out and tried to shove aside his emotions.
This witcher was not Geralt. Whoever they were wouldn’t have a clue who Jaskier was. More importantly, the witcher was probably hunting a contract to be out in the woods this deep. Jaskier didn’t particularly feel like being some monster’s lunch this afternoon or worse, getting in between a witcher and his prey and ruining the hunt. That would definitely start them off on the wrong foot.
So Jaskier instead moved to the opposite side of the clearing and sat down against a tree. Maybe he’d be able to get some composing done while he waited in relative safety. The lute was probably out of the question, too irritating and distracting if the man was anywhere within earshot, but perhaps he could hum while he tried to sort out the melodies?
An hour or so and Jaskier was more than a little frustrated by the last line of a potential verse. The metaphor that he’d used was stretched just a little too far for a good lyric but he couldn’t think of another word that would make the rhyming scheme work. There was a piercing shriek somewhere nearby in the forest that was abruptly cut off by a loud thud. Jaskier would guess that the witcher was finishing up.
Slowly, he packed away his notebook and took a quick bite of some of his jerky. As soon as the witcher returned, Jaskier could be on his way and back to his witcher-less existence. It wasn’t like the man would want him to stick around.
“Who are you?” A voice demanded before he’d even noticed anyone approaching. Jaskier glanced around and spotted the man with slicked back dark hair watching him carefully.
“Just a traveller, passing by.”
“And what, you didn’t feel like finding your own clearing in the middle of goddamn nowhere so you decided to stake out mine?”
“I apologise, Master Witcher. I promise you, I will be out of your hair in just a moment. Thought it might be safer to wait here for you to finish taking care of … that.” Jaskier made a vague gesture at the griffin head that the man was dragging along behind him.
“You’re damn right about that. Can’t tell you how many hunts I’ve had go sideways cos some hick wasn’t paying attention to where they were going. Don’t think I’ll thank you for it, though, just cos you’ve got half an ounce of sense in that head of yours.”
“Are you injured at all? I’m happy to offer a helping hand before we go our separate ways.” Jaskier asked with a grin. There was a stiff shrug of a shoulder, but he spotted the way that the left arm clenched reflexively. “Sit yourself down, Master Witcher and let me take a look.”
“I take it back, are you soft in the head? Do you make a habit of irritating dangerous men you’ve just met,” the man groused, stepping away when Jaskier took a step closer. A bitter laugh escaped the bard.
“It’s been my life’s work for the past two decades or so.” Jaskier tried to joke but even to his own ears it sounded brittle. “I will not burden you with my presence any longer than necessary, but I cannot leave you injured after all your heroic efforts.”
The witcher snorted derisively, but he was unbuckling his gauntlets and stalked his way over to sit on a log. Jaskier half scrambled after him. “I’m not going to pay you or owe you a favour or anything for this bullshit. Just can’t be assed arguing.”
“Of course. Do you need a hand with your armour?” The man frowned at him, but didn’t bat his hands away as Jaskier carefully unbuckled the straps and removed the bulky armour ignoring the fact that it was still covered in the remnants of the fight with the griffin. The left shoulder and sleeve of his jacket were particularly sticky with what was most likely blood. The man grimaced as the fabric was pulled away from a couple of nasty looking claw marks.
“Do you have any swallow or do you want me to stitch this? It’s not too deep, but the shoulder is going to pull at it even with your healing abilities.” The witcher flinched and then suddenly Jaskier found himself with a blade pinned at his throat.
“What do you know about witchers? Did they send you to be all sweet, lure me into a false sense of security so that they could catch me unaware? You going to experiment on me too?” The witcher hissed and Jaskier shook at the rage in his tone, so similar to the last time he’d seen Geralt. He’d been shocked then, too heartbroken to do more than leave without looking back. The anger had come later with Geralt, but it was the anger that flared up now.
“No, you don’t get to be an asshole right now. I’m not dealing with your damn witcher insecurities. I’ve sung my heart out and I’ve walked until the soles of my boots were worn thin, all to try and make life easier for you assholes and what have I got for it? I’ve been yelled at and abandoned and now, you’re holding a damn knife to my throat. So you can just put that away right now or I’ll just…” Jaskier flailed a little bit with his hands as he struggled to think of something suitably terrible.
The knife fell away from his throat as the man started to laugh. Jaskier huffed and shoved the man away now that the risk of cutting himself on a blade had disappeared.
“You’re the bard, aren’t you? The one who sung that damn coin song.”
“Toss a coin was one of mine, yes. Not my finest piece, but a definite crowd pleaser. The name is Jaskier, and you are?”
“Lambert. Geralt still hasn’t managed to run you off yet?” Jaskier flinched.
“He has actually. Now let me see your damned arm.” Lambert held out his arm without any further protest, eyeing Jaskier warily as the bard reached for the small medical kit that he kept in his satchel. His hands were steady as they made quick work of cleaning the wound and neatly stitched the worst of the gashes, even as his thoughts swirled and his vision blurred.
“Geralt is an asshole and a stupid son of a bitch.” Lambert muttered as he tilted his head to look at Jaskier’s handiwork. The witcher pulled his jacket back on as Jaskier stood and packed away the rest of his things. “My thanks, bard. These stitches aren’t terrible.”
“Try not to tear them as soon as I walk away.” Jaskier tried to force a smile, but he couldn’t manage it. Lambert clapped him on the shoulder.
“You stay clear of monster infested woods. Can’t guarantee that I’ll be around next time.”
“Safe travels on the path, Master Witcher.”
With that, Lambert settled down and pulled his blades closer to start cleaning off the monster guts and Jaskier walked away from the clearing. It felt a little better, walking away from a witcher on reasonably good terms. Maybe he’d finally learnt not to outstay his welcome.
~~~
Except Lambert kept crossing his path. Or Jaskier kept crossing his. It was hard to tell.
The witcher would show up at a tavern where Jaskier was entertaining the masses. A town’s alderman needed some convincing to hand over fair payment for the nest of nekkers that had been picking off the townspeople. Some extra rations worked their way into Lambert’s saddlebag. Worry was building in the pit of Jaskier’s gut – each time they met the other man looked a little more haggard and tired. A conversation from many years ago kept circling round in his head.
“Do witcher’s ever retire” – “Yeah. When they slow and get killed.”
Every instinct the bard had told him to keep the man close, but he was a distraction on the path at best and an irritation more often than not. Lambert never seemed upset to see him, even offering to buy Jaskier a beer after his set when a few of the patrons had tossed coins his way. They weren’t friends, but the road didn’t seem quite as lonely when he could keep an eye out for a familiar face.
But this time was different. At a nearby village, there’d been a story of a witcher riding into town and practically clearing out the tavern’s liquor supply before riding off into the woods again. Jaskier had heard him long before he entered the tiny clearing, and he had to wonder how much of the liquor there was left from the way that Lambert was swaying on his feet while cursing at a small shrine to Melitele.
“Gods be damned, you fucking whore. I’ve walked this cursed path, done everything that was demanded of me and still you take every single good thing that comes into my life.”
Jaskier shouldn’t be here and he definitely shouldn’t stay. The witcher was emotional and clearly furious and the last time… But then he’d never been the type to do what he should do. Instead he stepped out into the clearing and almost flinched back when the witcher turned to him with an angry growl.
There’s a moment of silence as Lambert registered exactly who it was standing there interrupting his rant. The witcher turned away and when he spoke his voice was clearly strained with effort to stay calm.
“Get out of here, Bard. I don’t want to yell at you.”
“I’ve got a couple of bottles of Temerian Rye and I can think of more than a few choice insults that I wouldn’t mind hurling at the Goddess.” Jaskier reached his hand into the satchel and picked out one of the bottles as proof. Lambert wouldn’t hurt him, the fact that he hadn’t just instinctively snapped at him was proof enough for the bard, and so Jaskier would stay for at least the night.
“I don’t need a goddamn babysitter.”
“How about a friend?” The witcher spun angrily with a sudden snarl and hurled a rock at the goddess statue. The stone bounced off harmlessly, which only seemed to make the man madder, letting out an angry growl.
“Fuck you, bitch. I don’t need a new friend. I had a friend and you fucking took him from me.” Lambert yelled at the shrine. Oh. This wasn’t anger at all. Well it was, but it was the type of anger that was driven by almost overwhelming amounts of grief with no idea what to do with it. Jaskier was somewhat familiar with the sensation.
“Well, you sound like you definitely deserve more booze.” Jaskier offered, closing most of the distance between them. He hesitated just short, not quite sure that Lambert wasn’t actually serious. Witcher’s were far harder to read than your average ignorant peasant or pompous noble. But Lambert reached out and took the bottle that Jaskier was still holding out.
“Damn straight.” Lambert took a long, deep swig straight from the bottle, before handing it back. “If you’re sticking around, you’d better start drinking too. No singing or positive bullshit tonight, bard. We drink and shout and curse the shit hands that life has dealt us and we don’t talk about it later.”
Jaskier took a drink of the liquor, grimacing a bit as it burned on the way down. “I accept your terms, witcher.”
“So what do you have to curse about? As far as I can tell everyone from one end of the continent to the other seems to like you.”
“They like my songs. That doesn’t mean they like me.” Jaskier grumbled. In fact it had been his experience that the opposite was true. Not since he’d left Oxenfurt, so long ago that his memories of the time were somewhat hazy, had he been welcomed somewhere for more than a season. Each court that he’d managed to winter at each year had made it clear as soon as it started to warm that his material had grown stale and they had no more need of his services. There had been one year – wintering at a lord’s manor in Northern Redania – and he hadn’t even lasted the winter before he’d been driven out into the cold and forced to fend for himself.
“People are assholes,” Lambert said sympathetically. “Humans are the absolute fucking worst.”
“True,” Jaskier said, taking another swig from the bottle. “They are prejudiced and hateful and selfish. Not one of them would know a good thing if it smacked them in the face.”
“Think they’re better than everyone else. Treat the rest of us worse than goddamn animals, to be driven out or hunted. Don’t even let us keep our goddamn dignity.”
“Destiny has definitely stacked the deck against you. Fate is such a bitch most days, but you deserve better.”
“Destiny can go fuck itself. It’s had it in for me my whole goddamn life.” Lambert took out his knife and started to toss it at the wooden carving of Melitele above the shrine. Despite the way he was staggering on his feet, his throwing aim seemed as accurate as ever, burying itself in the centre of the statues face with a solid thunk.
“If I could make it better, dear heart, I would.” Jaskier took a step closer to try and take his own turn with the knife. Only his balance was not particularly stable and instead he tumbled into Lambert’s shoulder, clutching at the man’s arm to hold himself steady. “What would you do if you didn’t walk the Path?”
“Hell, I’ve got no clue. Half a century as a witcher, I don’t know anything else. I’m no good for anything else. Aiden used to talk about leaving the path sometimes, of a future beyond monsters and disgusted locals and loneliness. I laughed at him and called him a moronic dreamer.”
Aiden. That wasn’t a name that Jaskier had heard before. Geralt had never been the chattiest companion, but the bard was certain that he at least knew the names of all the remaining witchers from the school of the wolf. Someone from another school then.
“Nothing wrong with dreaming. Dreams are the fuel that keeps us going when our souls are weary and our bodies burdened by the weight of our troubles. He sounds like a good friend.”
Lambert turned towards Jaskier and blinked, seeming surprised to see the bard attached to his arm.
“He was, wasn’t he? The best fucking friend. We could only meet a handful of times a year and now even that is fucking gone because he’s dead.” Lambert’s voice cracked a little on the final words.
“The gods aren’t content with our misery. They like to give us things, people, who make our lives better and then snatch them away so that we’re left bleeding and raw for their goddamn entertainment.” Jaskier murmured, thinking of his own lonely walk down that mountain. Not that Geralt was dead, like Lambert’s friend, but Jaskier wasn’t about to burden him with his presence when it was so clearly unwelcome.
“Wasn’t the gods that took Aiden. Fucking humans. Witcher’s ‘ve been disappearing, some fucking ring of humans experimenting on us like goddamn animals. They took him and I couldn’t fucking find him until they threw him away like garbage. He fucking deserved better.”
“He did. You all fucking deserve better.” Jaskier promised and Lambert looked at him with this strange expression.
“You actually mean that don’t you? Melitele’s tits, Jaskier.” Lambert seemed to deflate a little, some of the anger finally fading away until he just looked sad. Jaskier tugged at his arm, a clear invitation to come closer if the Witcher wanted. Strangely enough Lambert let himself be pulled closer until Jaskier could wrap his arms around him.
It was probably just the alcohol. Or the grief. But as Jaskier shifted them so that they were in a more comfortable position sitting against a tree, Lambert didn’t try to pull away. Jaskier took another drink, mourning as he reached the bottom of the bottle. There were more in Jaskier’s bag but that was halfway across the clearing. Instead, he started to sing and Lambert was definitely out of it because he didn’t even put up a token protest.
The path is long and winding,
Sometimes you’ll walk alone.
But those you love along the way
Will be waiting for you at home.
The swords that you must carry
keep all the monsters at bay.
Stay safe, my friend, take care
So we may meet another day.
~~~