The Princess Diaries

I am soooo relieved. This helps tremendously and makes me feel infinitely more secure.

Thank you, Universe, everyone who helped and/or believed in me.

And Jaskier noticed.

And then decided yeah, okay, he could work with that.

Which leaves the witcher staring, perplexed, as Jaskier haggles with a merchant for a new blanket for Roach, trying to obtain the dark green piece of woolen fabric at a cheaper price. As he watches Jaskier bring out the agreed upon coin, he remembers the way the bard had insisted she needed a new one because hers was getting too thin, and it was getting colder, and honestly Geralt don’t you care for her at all—

It had made Geralt feel uncomfortably guilty, that it was Jaskier who noticed his horse’s need before he did. The bard didn’t even ride Roach, and yet he was aware of the issue.

Not to mention that Jaskier insisted she be brushed every night, that the pets he gave her helped make her calm and happy. And Geralt wanted to refute that claim, he truly did, but Roach did seem to truly enjoy the attention. In fact, Roach had warmed up to the bard in a way that she had never done with others she saw frequently, like the other wolf witchers or Yennefer.

Perhaps, he conceded, that may be due to the bard bribing her with treats. But even in that, the bard seemed to be a step ahead of him, keeping a ranked list of Roach’s favorite snacks in his journal and updating it as needed. Geralt had tried to convince Jaskier multiple times that she did not need such indulgences, to which Jaskier had pointed out quite frankly that the witcher need not buy ale at every tavern they frequented either, or a bath rather than a swim in a stream, or—

Geralt could admit to himself that the bard had some…convincing arguments. After all, Roach worked so hard, was there for him through so much, and she deserved to be appreciated. Truly.

So maybe Geralt started to pay a little more attention to his horse, and to the care the bard gave her. And maybe he noticed that the bard was shivering more, his thin, flashy doublets not designed for the cooler autumn nights. And if the bard asks, Geralt only bought him the cloak because he knew the bard would soon start complaining about being cold all the time, so this was just a preemptive measure.

Yes, Geralt could have gotten the brown cloak for cheaper, but again, Geralt didn’t want to listen to the bard complain about how ugly he looked in it. So he chipped in the extra coin for the royal blue one, the color that Geralt had noticed the bard favored.

And, okay, Geralt hadn’t really meant to start giving the bard shoulder pats after a particularly rough performance, or to give the bard hugs when the man woke up from nightmares that left him drenched in sweat, unsure of what was real. But honestly, it was just logical to use what seemed to work best, no matter how foreign it felt to the witcher.

It was fine, he told himself, pulling Jaskier closer after one such terror-filled dream. He moved his hand up and down the bard’s back, trying to physically remind Jaskier of where he was.

Geralt reminded himself there was nothing weird about this, that this was how one was supposed to treat traveling partners.

Compilation of all the Solkats

Jaskier makes do with what he has for the most part though, and feels rather proud of the princess when the time comes for her to claim the throne as queen. The bard notices Geralt looks worried as Ciri steps into her role, though remains silent as usual, refusing to verbalize his concerns. And Jaskier would pry, if he wasn’t so busy helping Ciri from the sidelines as she acclimatizes to her position, the witcher and the bard having agreed to stay with her for at least a couple months to support her.

It takes two weeks of standing guard in council meetings before Geralt asks Ciri if Yennefer had taught her about…well, all of this stuff. Which makes Jaskier’s jaw just about drop to the floor, even Ciri looking rather incredulous at the witcher’s question.

Cue Jaskier rolling his eyes so hard he fears they may get stuck, as Geralt bashfully explains that he thought Jaskier was just teaching Ciri music stuff…? That when they talked while on the Path he thought it was just noble gossip and mentally tuned it out. Plus, how was he supposed to know Jaskier would know that kind of information, Jaskier was just a bard!

Which leads Ciri to pointedly asking if Geralt knows Jaskier is actually a viscount. The queen frowns at the way Geralt’s eyes widen, and then turns to her former tutor, who looks like he’s about one second away from either attempting to throw Geralt out the window or crying. And really, Jaskier taught her everything she knew, and she could use someone on her council she could trust, so it’s only logical for her to offer the bard the role of royal advisor.

Geralt looks appropriately horrified as Jaskier accepts the position, having not predicted this scenario occurring in any of the futures in which he imagined Ciri becoming the leader she was born to be. Jaskier was meant to be a traveling bard, his traveling bard, not some—some noble who spent his days stuck in a castle!

The witcher almost pouts at the way the pair work together to keep the greedy nobles in line at the next council meeting, practically cackling as they walk back to Ciri’s room arm in arm, leaving the witcher to trail along behind them.

He frowned as they shut the door in his face, before turning with a sigh to guard the room from the outside.

His Child Surprise had officially stolen his bard.

From The Amazing Devil’s instagram, May 31 ‘26

Now I’m an adult and people my age have their lives in order and I’m stuck here, confused, because I never planned to be alive and I’m so far behind.

I want to make an addition to this. I made this post a long time ago.

I’m currently back in university, and I’ve made so much progress with my trauma. I’m in a loving relationship.

Things can and will get better. It’s not too late.

I’m getting married. I’m still in that loving relationship.

I’ve been married a little over two years. I just got home from friendships that feel like home and family. My husband and I have our own place. I have a full ass book ready to be published.

But then Eskel (bc no he doesn’t die don’t be silly) explains that Jaskier is traveling with him for the year. That Eskel had offered and Jaskier, though unsure why Eskel would want him around, had accepted. And Geralt gets pissed, and jealous, and for the first time claims that Jaskier is his friend, only to be asked by Eskel what the bard’s name is.

Geralt says Jaskier, and even he isn’t emotionally constipated enough to not see the pain on his friend’s face when no, he doesn’t know anything other than his stage name. And his brother tells him what it is, because somehow he’s managed to learn more about the bard in a couple of months than the other Witcher was capable of doing in a couple of decades. And that…well. The only response Geralt has for that is to leave.

And the next winter, when Eskel comes back with only one new scar, armor that isn’t falling apart, and looking happier than he has in decades, all the other witchers look at the bard he returned with in a new light. Geralt’s not blind, he sees the way Lambert chats the bard up at meals, jokes with him, insists he plays the raunchiest songs Jaskier knows when Ciri goes to sleep. And Geralt had already worked out an apology for the mountain over the past year, it’s the longest speech he’s ever given in his life, and he thinks it would have been enough. That Jaskier would have come with him when the snow starts to melt, if not for Eskel asking which herb the bard is allergic to.

And Geralt freezes as Jaskier’s shoulders droop, his jaw tight as Lambert reams him for not knowing he’s allergic to caraway. So Jaskier travels with Lambert that year, who won’t accidentally poison the bard, thank you very much, and Geralt spends spring, summer, fall writing in a journal everything he knows about the bard.

He stares at the seven filled pages in shame, a weight on his chest at the realization that half of what he’s written are actions Jaskier performs for Geralt’s sake. Still, he doesn’t burn the journal, no matter how much he wants to.

He walks the path with Ciri, but come winter, he takes the time to learn his bard. It’s slow going, with Jaskier alarmed and confused at the sudden interrogation Geralt performs every time he catches the bard, until someone pulls the Witcher aside and explains he’s scaring the poor man, seriously Geralt, what the—

It took a century, but Geralt figures out how to hold a conversation. How to learn the things that make up his bard naturally, without giving the man flashbacks to fire and pain and hopelessness. He fills up several pages by the time winter is over, and even answers two questions from Lambert correct before the man’s cat has to step in, answering the third, fourth, and fifth.

And Geralt tries not to scowl, knowing Lambert probably cheated but feeling guilty enough he doesn’t know the bard’s favorite song that he doesn’t fight it. He says goodbye to Jaskier as he leaves with the cat, tells the bard he’ll miss him, and tries to pretend the shock, disbelief, happiness the man exudes doesn’t feel like an arrow to the heart.

So then the witcher gives a real, verbal apology, which Jaskier appreciates, but it’s not enough. A sign of guilt is not a sign of change, and when the bard says so Geralt asks what he can do to show Jaskier that this time will be different. Because Geralt knows now how important the bard is to him, and isn’t willing to let his pride and insecurity keep him from selfishly hoarding the attention of the man that makes life on the Path worth living.

And Jaskier thinks, silently, before saying that Geralt needs to commit to talking more. To using his vocal cords for more than just one word responses and noises. Because Jaskier has spent so long giving Geralt every physical and emotional thing the man needs, and Jaskier is so tired. He doesn’t say as much, but he feels like he’s been constantly tugging on a rope for Geralt’s attention, desperately clinging on no matter how hard the witcher pulls away.

And Jaskier’s hands are too raw, the skin too broken, for him to keep pulling without permanently breaking himself.

But maybe Geralt can still see that pain, in what the bard doesn’t say, because he simply asks how much. And Jaskier would be pissed, but from the decades they’ve spent together the bard knows he is asking not to reach a quota, but to keep himself accountable. To have a quantifiable way to ensure he is doing his part.

And maybe it’s that, which makes Jaskier feel sentimental enough to say twenty-four sentences. The bard knows the witcher recognizes the importance of the number, if the small pursing of his lips is any indication, but he just nods.

And…they make it work. Somehow.

It’s not comfortable for the witcher, that much is clear, and by the fourth day Jaskier tells Geralt to stop. That he doesn’t like forcing the witcher to be something he’s not. Jaskier stares down at his lute as he says these words, wondering why he thought this would ever work.

But…then Geralt keeps talking. Even when he gets this constipated look on his face, and Jaskier insists he doesn’t need to keep hurting himself. If Jaskier didn’t know it was near impossible, he would think the witcher couldn’t hear him.

But he can, obviously, because Geralt has started reacting to everything else the bard says now besides him telling the witcher to stop.

The first time Jaskier actually gets an answer to the question he posed mid-rant about a noble in Kerack, the bard almost tripped and fell, only Geralt’s quick reflexes saving him from losing his doublet to a mud pile. And then Geralt actually asks him if he’s okay, with words, and Jaskier is so stunned he’s barely able to stammer out a response.

He’s even more surprised when, at the end of the day, he realizes the witcher didn’t count it as one of his sentences. As if checking to make sure the bard was okay was a given, and shouldn’t be counted towards the mental tally of sentences needed to begin mending their fractured relationship.

Still, it takes weeks of careful conversation before Jaskier becomes more comfortable with asking the witcher questions about himself. And Geralt actually responds, surprised at some of the more basic ones being asked, like why he always wears black or his favorite book. It almost pains the witcher how happy, pleased, content the bard both smells and looks because he’s finally getting the answers to such simple questions.

It hurts more when Geralt notices that, even now, Jaskier does his best to avoid topics that would upset the witcher, like Blaviken and the Trials. He doesn’t pry, doesn’t take advantage of Geralt’s groveling to search for blackmail or stories that aren’t his own to give. He just…wants to know more about Geralt.

The realization feels like swallowing fifty potions at once.

And on the days when Jaskier is tired, sick, or just feeling off, Geralt talks more. He ranks the monsters he’s fought from most to least disgusting, banters with Jaskier about which inn this year has had the worst ale, and on one occasion, when Jaskier had a runny nose and pounding headache and couldn’t sleep, he quietly sang one of the bard’s own songs until the exhausted man’s eyes fell shut.

After five months, the duo stopped keeping track of how many sentences exactly the witcher was speaking each day. By that point, the man often went beyond the twenty-four sentence quota as it was, unless he spent the day on a hunt or unconscious. The bard found it decidedly sweet how the witcher just…added on his sentences to the next day’s in such cases, one time going so far as to say at least 100 sentences in the span of twenty-four hours after he’d spent the last week recuperating from a nasty fight with a pair of mated griffons.

It was new, and it was difficult, but it was good. Geralt hadn’t even noticed how much anxiety and sadness had leaked into the bard’s scent in the past several years, gradual as it was, until it was suddenly gone. And the witcher couldn’t do anything about the past, as much as he wanted to go back and throttle his younger self for hurting his only friend so badly, but he made up for it as best he could in the present.

It wasn’t until the pair went to Kaer Morhen for the winter that they realized exactly how much their dynamic had changed. The bard and witcher were the last two to make it to the keep for the season, and barely at that with the path half snowed-in already in some patches. Thus, Geralt and Jaskier arrived with the bard leaning heavily on the witcher, letting out small laughs as the witcher told the story of the time Lambert thought Geralt was a werewolf chasing him up the path to the keep.

And Lambert wasn’t even pissed off about the story, because he’s too busy wondering when Geralt was placed by a Doppler and why his silver sword isn’t burning him and Jaskier is suddenly no longer all that tired—

Cue a very long discussion in which everyone keeps looking between Geralt and Jaskier, completely baffled, as Geralt explains he’s been working on using his words more this year. Like the man’s silence was just a food preference he no longer favored.

And when asked why, Geralt doesn’t miss the way Jaskier freezes, only noticeable because the witcher still has his arm around his shivering companion.

And Geralt really wants to get the bard out of his wet clothes, in front of a fire, and work on putting back some of the weight the bard lost on the harsh journey. So he just grunts, saying the first thing to come to mind as he steers his friend away before he falls over—

“I’ve traveled with a bard for 25 years. Words are important to him, so they’re important to me too.”

And Jaskier…he definitely doesn’t almost start crying at that while Geralt helps him upstairs to change.

The witcher doesn’t care much about the snow, his mutagens keeping his body warm enough that with the thick cloak he has, he barely even feels chilled. He doesn’t usually get cold at all, really, the only time he’d ever even shivered being when he had overestimated the integrity of the ice on the lake near Kaer Morhen.

If he ever got cold as a human, he doesn’t remember it, although surely it can’t be as bad as the bard is making it seem. Yes, the man’s cloak may be a bit thinner than Geralt’s, but that didn’t mean the bard had to whine so much about the snow coming down or his wet trousers. The bard’s voice was annoying enough when it wasn’t coming across muffled from the wind and the scarf covering half of Jaskier’s face.

Besides, if her really didn’t want to come with the witcher, he should have stayed back at the inn they left three days ago.

The witcher was a bit more concerned, annoyingly, when the verbal onslaught was slowly replaced with chattering teeth, but the bard would be fine. They’d make camp soon, and the fire would warm him up, and then Geralt would be stuck with his loose lips again.

So a couple hours later, Geralt left Jaskier with Roach at the empty cave he’d found, trusting the bard to get a fire started while he went out to see if he could find something to eat, now that the storm was passing. He eyed the bard for a second, but he’d already stopped shivering, so he should be able to make a break for it if anything did see him as an easy meal.

Thus, when Geralt came back half an hour later to find Roach still tackled, curled around Jaskier on the ground, with no fire to cook the rabbits he’d scrounged up, he was beyond infuriated. Swearing loudly, he stormed over to the useless bard, eager to give him a piece of his mind, when Roach let out a sharp, piercing squeal.

At him.

Blinking rapidly, Geralt instinctively held up his hands, taking one careful step forward. When Roach didn’t react, he took another, watching as his horse snuffled at the bard’s hair with a soft whinny. Geralt was beginning to wonder just when Jaskier had become Roach’s new favorite, before he noticed how the bard’s usually bright blue eyes seemed…vacant.

He called the bard’s name, but the man didn’t answer. More worried now, he reached for the bard’s forehead, wondering if he was sick—

Geralt recoiled his hand instinctively at the coldness of Jaskier’s skin. Only corpses were ever that chilled, he swore, noticing for the first time how the bard’s heartbeat had become witcher slow.

He quickly got to work building a fire, and turned to the bard, hoping for some reaction as the flames started to grow. But the bard didn’t even seem to notice the change, eyes now closed and body leaning even more fully against Roach, far enough from the fire that little warmth would reach him.

Swearing again, he pulled Jaskier closer, grateful for the way Roach easily let him do so.

And if Geralt ran his hands over every part of the bard’s skin he could reach as he held him in front of the fire, desperately trying to heat him up?

It isn’t until he was ten years old, after his father kicked him out of the manor for the night (his tutor said his Ofiri wasn’t smooth enough, like Julian’s speaking was ever smooth) that he saw a bard for the first time. He saw the way the man (brightly dressed in red silks with little yellow flowers that made Julian’s hands twitch, his breath stutter in want) spun and sang and strummed, as if his only care in the world was to pour his heart and soul into his every word and move.

It looked like fun.

(It looked like freedom.)

Which led to Jaskier at eighteen approaching a witcher with a swagger in his step, proud of the voice he’d fully reclaimed five years ago. He spoke and spoke and spoke and didn’t let anyone shut him up, not even his new traveling companion.

He was no longer quiet no matter what people threatened or swore.

(He could never reclaim the smooth skin on his back, but it was a trade Julian had made knowingly. It was worth it—Jaskier would make sure it was worth it.)

And then his voice was stolen from him, because Geralt wanted peace, and he was seven years old again desperately clutching his throat as he realized the words just…wouldn’t come. But…but it was fine, the blasted witch healed him, he was fine, everything was—

Geralt told Jaskier to shut up, and instead of the bantering response the bard had planned, the words on the tip of his tongue, he stuttered. It surprised Jaskier so much, filled him with such horror, that the bard tripped over thin air and almost fell. He could only nod shakily when Geralt asked if he was okay, trying desperately to keep the smile on his face.

(And that night, after the witcher fell asleep, the bard whispered to himself until his voice was hoarse. He spoke and spoke and spoke and tried not to cry when the stutter only got worse as the sky began to lighten.

But Geralt wasn’t asleep. Couldn’t, after the way Jaskier had gone silent today, the pit of worry and self-loathing only growing with every word Jaskier failed to speak clearly. The Djinn was gone, Jaskier’s throat healed, but the witcher could no longer deny his reckless actions had opened old wounds Geralt didn’t even know were there.)

The only good thing was that Jaskier didn’t seem to stutter as he sang. The bard was grateful Geralt didn’t complain about Jaskier singing on the road more than usual, only speaking when he really had to do so.

It went like this for months until Geralt was buying himself a new cloak for the winter rapidly approaching, when he returned to where he had left the bard to an unusual sight. Where Jaskier had been performing for a small group of children, the young offspring of the merchants and locals selling their wares, he was now moving his hands in strange ways as a little girl in front of him beamed, also wiggling her smaller hands and arms.

Spotting the woman that seemed to be the child’s mother, he slowly approached her, wondering silently if she knew what was happening. Luckily, the woman recognized him from Jaskier’s songs, and was quick to mention how happy her girl, Emilia, was to have someone to speak with, apparently not having met many who knew…sign language?

And…Geralt couldn’t physically fix the old wounds he’d reopened, couldn’t patch what he could not see, but maybe…

So when Jaskier met up with Geralt next spring, and the man greeted him by asking how his winter was in sign language, the bard gaped before responding likewise with a speed that the witcher could barely follow. Still, the witcher couldn’t help the way his chest felt lighter at how the bard smiled, looking happier than Geralt had seen him in almost a year.

Eventually, Jaskier got his stutter under control again, and the need for sign language only arose occasionally. It did come in handy when he was sick, or lost his voice from singing too much, or Geralt’s senses were giving the witcher a headache. But for years, Jaskier didn’t struggle with his voice getting trapped in his throat, didn’t feel his leaden tongue sit heavy in his mouth, didn’t have to wonder what he would do if something happened and he couldn’t even yell for help.

Until—

Jaskier stood, frozen, staring at the witcher, his mouth opening and closing and yet no noise coming out. He felt the tears prickle at the corner of his eyes as he turned away from Geralt, refusing to see the witcher’s response to his weakness as he stared out at the valley below the mountain.

He heard the witcher walk closer, but stayed stubbornly turned away until Geralt was next to him, his rough hand turning Jaskier’s head so that the bard was facing him.

Jaskier slumped as the witcher signed his apology, struggling as he tried to explain with his hands that he wasn’t mad at Jaskier, Jaskier was his friend, he didn’t blame him. And Jaskier jerkily nodded, signing forgiveness, it’s okay, I get it as he sniffled, trying not to outright cry until Geralt just pulled him into a tight hug and Jaskier could no longer hold back his silent sobs.

And it wasn’t perfect. Both of them would make mistakes again, would hurt each other without meaning to do so. But Geralt would always make sure that Jaskier could talk to him, even if he couldn’t speak, and Jaskier would talk enough for the two of them when the witcher had thoughts, but couldn’t find the words to speak.