Imagine if in the winter after Voleth Meir, the keep is sieged by fae. The witchers and Yennefer put up the best fight they can, but are quickly incapacitated, and can only watch in horror as the creatures march right past them, indifferent to their screams. Curses fill the air, and they all fight against invisible bonds as the ten creatures enter where the princes is hiding, where they’d told Ciri to run, hoping she’d be safe—
Silence resounds, however, when it was not Ciri the fae walk out of the keep with, but Jaskier. Jaskier, who takes one look at them and insists they be set free, and the leader of the small troop…listens?!
Already the first fae has disappeared into thin air, though, when Geralt finally makes it to his feet. Jaskier turns, attempts to say something to him, but one of the fae grabs his arm and then they’re just…gone. The bard he’s just gotten back is gone, and he’d not even had a chance to talk to him the past two weeks he’d been here. He thought he had more time, there should have been more time—
“Your bard will be returned shortly. His court needs him.”
Geralt blinked at the words, unable to react before the leader disappeared after uttering the only explanation the group of fae had given. Geralt stiffened at the pounding of feet on stone, watching as his Child Surprise runs into the courtyard.
He wants to be happy at her safety, grateful that she hadn’t been taken. Instead, all he felt was hollow as he fell back to his knees, mourning the man he’d never even thought to fear the loss of.
It took 39 days for the fae to return the bard. Five and a half weeks where Geralt found he couldn’t sleep, could barely eat. He knew he was worrying the others, that Ciri needed him to be more present, but he couldn’t help the way his feet dragged him to the courtyard every day. He didn’t know how to stop waiting, hoping this would be the day that Jaskier appeared, that his bard would be returned to him, that he could finally rest knowing the other was safe and home.
Geralt almost didn’t believe his eyes, when the leader of the fae finally appeared in a blinding light, Jaskier beside him, looking…for lack of a better word, ethereal. The bard was practically glowing, dressed in fine, dark green silk with bright gold embroidery taking the shape of flowers and leaves. He had a wreath of his namesake in his air, and his grin stretched from ear to ear.
Even the fae seemed to be smiling, a rather smug look on his face as he clasped his hand on Jaskier’s shoulder. Geralt did his best not to scowl as he marched forward, eyeing the powerful creature warily.
“You should be proud of your bard. He is an honor to our court, and we look forward to hearing him play again at the next competition.”
Geralt inhaled sharply, unable to stop himself from lunging forward and pulling the bard behind him. He’d just gotten Jaskier back, he wasn’t about to let him be taken again—
The fae frowned at Geralt, and the witcher suddenly realized how tall the being was, how he almost towered over him. It didn’t help the witcher relax in the least, despite how Jaskier was hissing at Geralt to quit it—
“Handle him with care, witcher. We will not tolerate further mistreatment, no matter how much Jaskier claims you are necessary for his music-making.”
Again, Geralt froze, wrong-footed at the strange response. Luckily, the fae seemed to find his reaction amusing, his tinkling laughter echoing in the courtyard even as the fae himself disappeared from sight.
Geralt waited a beat, two, before Jaskier’s complaints of being cold finally pushed him to action. While beautiful, Jaskier’s clothes were clearly not suited for winter at Kaer Morhen, and the witcher found himself draping his own cloak over the bard as he ushered the man into the warmth of the keep.
It didn’t take long for the pair to reach the dining hall, and Geralt remembered it was dinner time as everyone froze at the sight of Jaskier just…strolling into the room and taking his previously empty seat, as if he’d never left. Indeed, it wasn’t until the bard was pestered with all manner of questions that Jaskier even seemed to notice that anything was wrong.
Yet, instead of answering the questions, Jaskier just…turned to Geralt, looking as confused as everyone else.
“Why didn’t you explain?”
Geralt stared at Jaskier, his face seemingly giving away…something, that made Jaskier’s own drop, expression turning sad and horribly accepting. Like he’s not even surprised that the witcher has yet again messed up.
Apparently deciding he’s done with Geralt for now (and it doesn’t hurt, it shouldn’t, not when Jaskier is still here at least), the bard looks to the rest of the table.
“The fae have a music competition every four years, to see which court has the best performers. Usually it’s just for those who are fae or have fae heritage, but they make an exception for me I guess. Something about true talent and skill being welcomed.” Jaskier shrugged, clearly not bothered with remembering the specifics. “I guess I impressed them the first time, so I’ve been invited the last five competitions as well.”
Jaskier winced, rubbing the back of his neck. “Although perhaps invited is a rather…sugar-coated word. I suspect if I didn’t come willingly, the fae would find a way to make me more…agreeable.”
The silence that followed Jaskier’s word was heavy, an oppressive blanket over the room.
Jaskier licked his lips. “Though what do I know? I’ve never exactly tried that hard to get away, not with their magic and fancy swords.” He laughed, like the words weren’t horribly tragic.
Jaskier hummed in question, turning to Geralt.
Jaskier sighed, fiddling with the fork still in his hand in lieu of looking at Geralt. “I was 22. The competition was hosted by the autumn court, and we’d just split up for the year.”
The witcher frowned, knowing what Jaskier wasn’t saying. That the bard had likely woken up alone at their campsite, after Geralt had abandoned him, and been taken mere days later, unsure if he would ever return to the human world.
And…if Geralt thought hard, he could remember why Jaskier seemed so upset, earlier. Recalled the bard telling a tale of singing for the fae, of wowing the masses. He’d thought the bard had been embellishing at the time, talking about some court masquerade party or other, not…not this.
Jaskier sighed, plastering on a large smile. “It’s quite alright, Geralt. It sounds quite far fetched if you’re not actually present to see the whole—” Jaskier waved his free hand around—“escorting.”
Lambert snorted, making a crude joke under his breath that had Eskel kicking his shin. Geralt didn’t really know, didn’t care what he said. Because suddenly a lot of things were making more sense: the way Jaskier had practically clung to him that spring, hardly taking any lovers for months after their reunion. How the bard had practiced day and night until the witcher told him to shut up, not stopping even at the bruised fingers and small cuts that formed. The bard was fervent in his desire to play, to perfect his pieces, to the point that he seemed almost manic with it.
Melitele’s sake, how did he miss that something was wrong—
Geralt’s eyes instantly zeroed in on the bard’s hands. He found himself holding them before he even realized he was doing so, ignoring the squawk from Jaskier as his fork fell, looking instead for any damage he might have missed. The witcher was so foolish, he should have checked Jaskier for injuries as soon as he came back, why did he—
“Better than ever, Yennefer.” Jaskier yanked his hands from the witcher, rubbing his wrists. “Perks of the competition, actually—the fae heal all my injuries so that I may perform at my best.”
And that was…Geralt frowned, realizing what Jaskier was saying without speaking.
“What injuries did you have?”
This time it was Yennefer and, strangely, Vesemir who gave him hard looks.
Geralt had to force himself not to wince under their ire.
“Just some bruises and…burns.” Jaskier finally said, voice projecting forced calm.
“But they’re fine now, see?” Jaskier waved his hands in the air. “Good as new! And they even gave me a new lute, so generous of them! Of course, I do deserve some compensation I suppose, for helping them win first place. I—”
Jaskier scoffed playfully. “Come now, Ciri, I know it’s been a while since you’ve heard me play, but that is plain rude. For Melitele’s sake, your grandmother wouldn’t allow just anyone to play at your birthday banquets. Only the very best, I assure you. Why, one time—”
Jaskier continued to prattle on, telling the story of the time Jaskier had been gone at the fairy court and Valdo had been summoned in his place. Ciri laughed as he explained how the bard was practically thrown out before the princess even got the chance to hear him, with nothing but the clothes on his back.
Geralt glanced down at the now cold food, realizing he’d missed rather a lot about the bard it seemed. He hadn’t known about the fairy court, obviously, or the trips to Cintra or Jaskier’s injuries. It made Geralt’s stomach turn as the witcher wondered what else he’d missed about the bard.
“So which court do you play for?”
Jaskier, who’d been giggling with Ciri at his own impression of his nemesis, straightened at the question.
“The summer court, of course, seeing as my birthday is at the beginning of the season.”
The rest of the table blinked at him in confusion.
“So, because you were born in summer, you automatically play for the summer court?”
“Seems stupid.” He said, stabbing at a piece of potato and popping it into his mouth.
Jaskier shrugged, tilting his head. “I mean, how else would they decide?”
Lambert just huffed, seemingly not having a good response to that.
“So let me get this straight.” Yennefer clasped her hands together in front of her. “For the last, oh, two decades or so, you’ve been taken every four years from wherever you are to perform for the fae. You have all your injuries healed, and apparently they feed and house you, as well as gift you with items sometimes if you perform particularly well. And afterwards, they just drop you off where they picked you up, like the past six weeks never happened. Correct?”
Jaskier paused, then nodded.
Yennefer eyed him for a moment, but seemed to accept his answer as she too went back to her food.
“Anything else I should know about?”
The table turned to Geralt, most clearly surprised at the question. Still, the witcher focused on Jaskier, aware of the bard’s tendency to be rather loose with certain details sometimes unless prompted.
“Well, the competition takes place on a rotating schedule. This year’s was obviously held by the winter court, so four years from now it will be held in spring.”
Geralt nodded at the information, mentally preparing himself for the loss of Jaskier. Already, he felt dread pooling in his stomach at the idea of the bard in a land he could not reach, stuck somewhere for another 39 days where the witcher could do nothing to protect him.
Still, he cleared his throat.
“No, I think that’s—well…” Jaskier chuckled, the sound reminiscent of when he’d come running back to the inn to tell Geralt they’d better leave after bedding the wrong person.
Geralt squinted at the bard.
“I may be a little immortal. Just that, I haven’t exactly aged much since I helped them win at that first court. And the fae leader, Siger, said something about needing me for numerous competitions to come.”
You could have heard a needle drop in the silence of the room.
Jaskier chuckled, the sound a little more strained.
“The fae are very, very competitive.”
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