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my gift is my song

First fic fill for the amazing @witcher-bows-and-arrows event going on!

Prompt: Song

Words: 4.5k

Relationships: Jaskier/Geralt, Jaskier/Yennefer, Jaskier/Priscilla (past), Jaskier/Valdo (past), eventual Jaskier/Geralt/Yennefer

Summary: From the beginning, Jaskier always knew his love language was a bit… different. His friends would hug or say nice things about each other, his sisters would gift flowers, his father would pat his shoulder with an approving look. In books and stories, there were always grand gestures and fancy words, speeches and longing looks. Words like “I love you” and “I love you, too.”

But the first time Jaskier wants to convey just how much he loves someone, it doesn’t come out with those three easy words. Instead, as little Julian, he claps his hands together and sing-songs about how pretty his momma’s eyes are.

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Jaskier's love language is song-writing. It takes a while for anyone to understand.

Also available on AO3

From the beginning, Jaskier always knew his love language was a bit… different. His friends would hug or say nice things about each other, his sisters would gift flowers, and his father would pat his shoulder with an approving look. In books and stories, there were always grand gestures and fancy words, speeches and longing looks. Words like “I love you” and “I love you, too.”

But the first time Jaskier wants to communicate just how much he loves someone, it doesn’t come out with those three easy words. Instead, as little Julian, he claps his hands together and sing-songs about how pretty his momma’s eyes are.

As a toddler, he’s no great singer— his voice wobbles and mispronounces every other word— but his momma’s smiling when he rhymes sea-blue with see you , so he must be doing something right. He laughs when he’s done, crawling into her lap.

“Such a pretty song, Julian,” she says, petting his hair. “What’s it about?”

His voice squeaks when he tosses his arms around her neck.

“Nothing,” he says— too young to know why he’s embarrassed, too immature to do anything other than hide from the blush singeing his cheeks.

His momma doesn’t ask again, and she doesn’t mention the song, either. It’s not the first song Jaskier’s made up, after all— his first song was a ten-second ditty about a frog he’d found in the gardens— but it still feels different to him.

At dinner, his momma gushes over the bows Jaskier’s sisters made for her hair.

“I’m so lucky to have such loving girls,” she says— and Jaskier wonders why his song couldn’t say the same things those bows can.

<><><> <><><> <><><>

It’s not that Jaskier doesn’t know how to say he loves people— in fact, he’s far more comfortable with it than he probably should be. His friends and family grow accustomed to the casual way he tosses the words around, as simple as saying hello or goodbye. It doesn’t mean he means it any less.

But, then, sometimes, he’ll meet someone for whom those words feel too little, too small. Too ordinary. And he doesn’t think about it as melodies twist through his head at the sight of their smile or the sound of their voice— his thoughts become lyrics, and his confessions become verse.

By the time he arrives at Oxenfurt, he already knows he’s stitched together by song notes and music. He has talent and passion— and a muse in every person he’s ever loved.

Like the blonde girl in his class with the sharpest smile. Priscilla .

He falls in love with her on the first day of classes— how could he not? She dominates the class discussion about the merits of classical compositions versus contemporary, and she references old poets Jaskier only read because he wanted to seem smart and pretentious. Other languages flow from her tongue like she was born brilliant, and Jaskier taps a new tune against his desk as he watches her leave. Then, he catches up to her in the courtyard and introduces himself as her new favorite person. She laughs but she doesn’t say no when he asks to buy her a drink.

They don’t put a name on what they are, but the smile Priscilla reserves for when they’re alone says it all.

It takes a month before Jaskier plays a song for her, though.

He knows she won’t judge him for it— he’s taken Priscilla to enough professional performances to know she likes the romance of serenades, despite her scoffing tone at the word. But there’s a difference between sitting beside her while she watches someone else sing, and standing before her while he does the singing himself-- not to mention the content of his song.

Still, he takes Priscilla to a place by Oxenfurt’s coast and tunes his lute. As a first-year student, Jaskier’s never performed in front of anyone outside his family; and he hasn’t performed a song written specifically for someone since the failed piece about his mother’s eyes.

Priscilla’s gaze warms him, though, and he lets that guide his hands. He doesn’t look at her as he sings; if he does, he’s afraid he’ll expose too much of how he feels. His heart keeps pace with the melody, his breaths catching unprofessionally when he reaches the part about how her smile fits against his own. He sings metaphors about her beauty, similes about her talent and wit. Gods, he’s so obvious in his love for her—

But, when he’s done, she sighs dreamily and asks if he writes such lovely things for all the girls.

Jaskier blinks and wonders where he went wrong with the words— which part of it sounded like a song that could fit against just anyone. Just for you, he wants to say. I wrote this because of you .

The words, though, won’t come. If Priscilla doesn’t understand the depths of the lyrics, that’s okay. She likes the melody and says he has a handsome voice. She holds him and kisses him and says he’s going to be such a famous bard with ballads like that— but she doesn’t claim the song for her own. She doesn’t understand what it means.

It’s okay, Jaskier thinks. He knows, and that’s enough.

<><><> <><><> <><><>

Valdo’s the first person to receive a song after breaking Jaskier’s heart. It’s a song written in rage and heartache— hurt and frustration that he still misses the man who cast him aside. Valdo had been his best friend throughout the final years of their studies, talking each day between classes and wondering whether either will truly achieve their dreams of becoming a master bard.

Even after Valdo sends Jaskier away— claiming him to be a distraction from Valdo’s goals, a silly boy who can’t truly expect someone to want him forever— Jaskier still wishes for him. After spending so much time with Valdo, the absence hurts— even if, in the end, their time was only filled with insults and petty disputes.

In the void that follows Valdo’s breakup, Jaskier fills the space with music.

It’s about Valdo— of course, it’s about Valdo. It’s unlike any song he’s written before, caught in that space between love and hate. Every other song had been a confession, a secret; this one’s a story, and Jaskier writes to find the ending.

When he pens the last chord, he doesn’t know if he likes the ending he’s written. It’s not simply a story of love and loss— it’s something more. Something so stupidly hopeful. Something that no longer sounds like I love you but, rather, I still love you.

Gods, he’s fucked.

But loneliness weaves pretty lyrics into each verse, and he wonders if Valdo would remember that time he called Jaskier his dandelion wish come true— Jaskier doesn’t like to steal metaphors, but he likes to think he has a sense of ownership over that one, anyway. And, as he looks at the chorus and the hook, he wonders if Valdo would smile when Jaskier sings in that higher pitch he always liked, those notes Valdo could never reach quite as well.

Or, maybe, he’d just be envious and call Jaskier a narcissistic show-off. He tended to say that a lot towards the end.

Still, as hopeful as he’s always been, Jaskier carries his lute to Valdo’s favorite study space— a corner of the courtyard protected by twisted trees and flowering bushes. He spies him easily, the way he always does.

And he spots the other boy seated halfway in his lap, too. He spots the way Valdo smiles at him, fawns over him— the way his lips press to the outer curl of his ear, and how he laughs when he makes this stranger blush.

Valdo’s mouth slips over soft lyrics Jaskier only recognizes because, once, Valdo sang them to him. They weren’t words Valdo had written but, at the time, it had felt like he and Jaskier matched— like, maybe, their special songs for special people meant the same things.

Now, though, this stupid thought shatters, and Jaskier turns away.

Back in his room, he tosses his song for Valdo in the fire— never mind how he already has each note and chord memorized.

<><><> <><><> <><><>

When Jaskier meets Essi Daven at his first real bardic competition, he can’t help but think of home— of the younger sisters left behind, their smiles and brilliant eyes. His heart warms and his thoughts stray towards her more often than they should. It’s not that he falls in love with her, though; he simply grows to love her just as he would any friend. And, if he takes her under his wing with an older brother grin, he chooses not to be embarrassed.

Essie doesn’t begrudge his doting. If anything, she leans into it— teasing him fondly while coming to him for advice, holding his hands and kissing his cheek but never with the intention of anything more. Jaskier offers everything she needs, even if his advice often comes down to the two of them getting far too drunk far too often. It’s fun. It’s nice. Besides, Jaskier manages to remain responsible with Essi around. She’s younger— though some would make the argument that she’s wiser and more mature to make up for it— and she has so much good to offer the world.

When he writes his song for Essi, he panics. He tosses the papers into a drawer and paces his room, wondering if he’s fallen in love with his unofficial little sister. In the morning, though, nursing a hangover, he sighs and rereads what he’s written. It doesn’t feel like a love confession— not like it did for Priscilla or Valdo. It simply feels like an expression of something she certainly already knows.

Although the song seems a bit overly sentimental— and extravagantly unsubtle, gods, he refers to her as “little eye” a half dozen times in one verse— he can’t bring himself to hide it again. He smiles as he refines the lyrics and notes. He pulls his messy thoughts into cleaner sounds, composing a song Essi deserves.

And, when Essi visits as she so often does, Jaskier barely has her through the door before revealing his masterpiece, grinning wildly as he suggests they perform it together at the next competition. She laughs and calls him a madman, clinging to the papers with her constant air of amusement; she allows Jaskier to teach her her part, allows him to sing softly about the little blue gem of an eye peeking out from a knowing face.

If Essi catches on, she doesn’t mention it. Jaskier doesn’t expect her to— it’s not a confession, he knows. It’s nothing more than a song for a friend.

As Essi lifts her own instrument and joins in, though, Jaskier stumbles over a note. He thinks of all the songs he’s written for all the people he loves. And, though he loves sharing his songs with them, he realizes: he’s never heard them sing it back.

For a moment, when Essi watches him and sings, Jaskier can pretend he finally feels seen.

<><><> <><><> <><><>

At first, Jaskier writes songs about Geralt of Rivia as the White Wolf. He writes about the legend he’s witnessing, the mythology they’re creating.

But, somehow, without realizing it, years pass— he looks over his collection of Witcher songs and realizes he stopped writing about the White Wolf a long time ago.

No. Instead, half his songs are about Geralt just as Geralt— hidden in poetry and pretty words. Hidden in love confessions and ballads.

It’s more than what he wrote for Essi, more than what he wrote for Valdo or Priscilla combined. In an inn room while Geralt’s out hunting wyverns, Jaskier tugs at his hair and tries not to scream about the fact that he has based practically his entire fame upon songs about how much he loves Geralt.

He knew he was enamored. He knew there was something like lust or a crush when he approached Geralt. But, as the years went by, he thought it was admiration. Adoration. The kind of appreciation one has for a hero. Not— Not this .

His chest pangs as he looks over his songbooks, his journals and notes. His breath catches and he doesn’t dare try to count how many times he’s said he loves Geralt, or how many ways he’s said it. Sung it. Written it. Whatever.

All that matters is that the lyrics before him are about Geralt— the songs that made him famous are about Geralt. It’s as obvious as if he’d stood in a tavern and screamed it.

So, a crueler part of his mind whispers, has Geralt figured it out, too? He hasn’t said anything, hasn’t done anything— and Jaskier’s flirted, he’s teased and he’s tried to figure out what the witcher thinks of him, to no avail. Does Geralt know? Does Geralt even care?

Jaskier thinks of meaningless comments that mean more now— things like fillingless pie or the supposed insincerity of Jaskier’s songs. Maybe Geralt can sense what’s there; maybe he just doesn’t believe it.

Fine. That’s… fine. Not the first time, anyway.

Jaskier’s hands shake as he collects his songs back into his pack, breathing deeply to calm himself down. So, he’s in love with Geralt. He can handle that.

So long as he’s allowed to keep writing songs about it. Even if Geralt doesn’t understand. No one ever does.

It’s just inspiration, Jaskier will say if someone asks about the silver-haired hero of all his songs. It’s just creative license and fiction. It doesn’t mean anything.

If Geralt says nothing about it, it doesn’t need to mean anything, at all.

<><><> <><><> <><><>

The fucking witch—

The witch and her violet eyes and her hidden smile, her teases and her insults and the way she looks at Jaskier like she just can’t figure him out. The witch and the way she clung to him when they met again after the mountain, the way she nearly fell apart against him.

The way she saved his life for no better reason than she knew he was in danger.

There was a song about her already out there— her and a kiss Jaskier knows nothing about, personally. But that was a song for Geralt, really, if one was to study the lyrics and the motivation. It wasn’t a song for Yennefer.

And, as Jaskier’s healing fingers tap against his legs in a prison cell, he works to rectify that wrong.

Jaskier hums his way around tunes that feel like they could fit against Yennefer’s skin, something slow and dangerous and beautiful. He doesn’t bring any words to the melody, yet; the guards have their eye out for the vanished mage, and he’d rather not go through another interrogation so quickly after the last one.

Besides, Yennefer’s always been a bit keener than Geralt. If Jaskier writes a song about her, he has no doubt she’ll pick apart the words and approach him with her weapon-like gaze.

Something about that thought excites him a tad more than it should, but Jaskier would still prefer to avoid any and all situations of possible rejection. He’s had enough of that to last him several lifetimes.

Still, this song came into his head as they ran from those thugs together, several strings of metaphors and symbols; it slammed against his chest with a rib-crushing rhythm when he saw Yennefer disappear in the whore house, gasping as he realized the void she’d be leaving behind.

So, here he is— humming a new song and trying to figure out if it’s because he’s fallen in love with Yennefer. He picks through the lyrics his mind chooses, separating them between vague interest and anything that could be more than a simple crush.

With each word, he grows more terrified of just how easily he can see himself following after Yennefer— desperate, lovestruck, a fool. What the fuck is he supposed to do with that? She loves Geralt— and, despite everything, Jaskier knows Geralt must still love her.

Songs about those two are better for business, anyway. No one cares to hear about the heartbroken bard on the outside.

<><><> <><><> <><><>

So was Jaskier supposed to meet a fiery young princess with a witcher as a family and not write a song about her? It’s as obvious as it had been when he’d wandered up to Geralt of Rivia in a tavern in Posada.

And, in the same way, he watches as his song shifts from being about her to being for her. A series of lyrics that sound like a father to a daughter, a promise to protect her even if he can’t always stick around.

Of all his confessions, this one strikes him the hardest. He’s not Ciri’s father— adopted or otherwise. At best, he plays the role of the uncle who hangs around her true parents far too often. To pretend otherwise would be selfish, and he can’t do that to the family Yennefer and Geralt are creating for her. What does he expect, anyway? To play a tune about how precious he thinks Ciri is, and hope they’ll welcome him into their perfect trio with open arms?

He knows how that ends, and so he tucks the song’s true meaning beneath his tongue, pretending he sings of inspiration and nothing more. He pairs it with his catalog of witchers and sorceresses— never anything that could reveal his heart.

Still, he writes about the princess and the strength of her soul. He writes about his hopes for her future— more than prophecy and heroics, but happiness and love.

He writes about everything she is— and everything more she will be.

<><><> <><><> <><><>

Kaer Morhen and the wolf witchers are everything Jaskier could have ever imagined and more. When Geralt finally gets around to introducing Jaskier to everyone, Jaskier can barely contain his glee.

Of course, the witchers seem less excited to meet him. If anything, they go out of their way to ignore him. He doesn’t blame them, exactly; he’s a strange human in this mysterious witcher keep, and they’re still recovering from Voleth Meir’s attack. They hardly have time to fake any joy or welcome for him.

And, bit by bit, they start to open up.

It starts with Eskel, the first to answer Jaskier’s questions when they bubble over at dinner or breakfast. Lambert and Coen ignore him with rolled eyes, but Eskel offers soft responses with a smile that brightens his shy face. Vesemir, then, joins in to correct whatever Eskel might get wrong— small details about monster habits or potion ingredients.

It’s not until Eskel tells his story of a rather fascinating encounter with a succubus that Lambert finally breaks.

“Alright, then,” he snaps, falling into the bench across from them. “If we’re telling stories, let me give you something actually worth hearing.”

From there, the rest simply follow along.

It almost hurts, the sudden urge to write about every story they share; Jaskier’s hands have yet to fully heal, and his lute’s lost somewhere on Oxenfurt’s docks. It’s for the best, he knows— he can’t go popularizing details about these witchers’ private lives just as they’re beginning to trust him. Besides, there’s only one real muse for him.

Still, songs appear— and, maybe, he shouldn’t be so surprised when, one day, he looks down at an idea for a song that practically calls these witchers his family.

They are, though, he realizes. He trusts them and adores them and he loves them. And, even if they may be a bit awkward at showing it, he knows they feel the same for him.

He never wrote a song like this for his birth family— there were small snippets of melody that spoke of moments where they made him feel safe enough to say such silly sentimental things, but never anything so certain. Is this what family feels like? Is this what it means to be wanted in return? When he looks at his witchers, his chest warms with the understanding that he’s supposed to be here.

And, so, maybe he’s supposed to write a song about how wonderful that feels. Maybe, like fate, the bard was brought to the keep to immortalize this sensation forever.

It’s terrifying, though, when Lambert claps him on the back and leans over to ask who the new song’s for.

“No one,” Jaskier squeaks, just as embarrassed as he was when his mother asked the same thing all those years ago. “Don’t worry about it. It doesn’t mean a thing.”

<><><> <><><> <><><>

As predicted, no lack of lute was going to keep Jaskier from performing— even if it’s just for a group of grumpy witchers in a freezing keep. Jaskier makes a habit of jumping to his feet after dinner every few evenings, keeping time with his spoons as he dances through the tables and collects the few smiles they’re each willing to grant him.

“It’s okay to enjoy yourself. I won’t tell,” he teases, and he laughs when Lambert and Coen protest the idea of ever enjoying his singing.

“Bard,” Lambert calls one evening. His crossed arms and overdramatic scowl give away the embarrassment he has over Jaskier’s latest melody about the Red Wolf. Even the way he calls Jaskier bard carries a gentler tone beneath the gruffness. Nearly all witchers, it seems, have a difficult time admitting if they like someone. “Is there a specific reason you write so many damn songs for so many damn people?”

Jaskier pauses, the world slipping beneath his feet for a moment as he considers a question he’s never really been asked before. Despite the fame his songs have received, few people dare to ask about more than the validity of the White Wolf’s adventures. It’s nothing he hasn’t already thought of, though— the answer’s the same as the one about “who’s this one for?” No one. Nothing. It doesn’t mean a thing.

But—

Beneath the surface of performance, he wants to tell them the truth. He wants to tell them everything, the songs he’s hidden and the reason why he can’t let anyone hear. He may not have been ready before, but he wants to be ready now. The time he’s spent here and the warmth they bring to him— shouldn’t he let them know? Even if they can’t understand— even if no one ever does? Isn’t it worth saying?

The confession, though, sticks in his throat and he doesn’t know how to say it without breaking.

“It’s how he shows he cares,” Geralt blurts out— thoughtless, casual. Like he hasn’t rocked through Jaskier’s very core with those few words.

Jaskier stills, staring at Geralt from across the room. He sits by Yennefer beside the fire, the two previously discussing Ciri’s training— Jaskier hadn’t known either of them had been listening. Geralt glances back at him, a strangely tender look upon his face; he watches Jaskier like he’s just realized what he’s said, and the nerves are settling against his skin. He’d almost look apologetic, if not for the way he smiles reassuringly.

Jaskier blinks. Geralt’s words pierce through his mind once more— It’s how he shows he cares.

No one, ever, has been able to say it so simply. No one has ever seen or known or understood. But, Geralt— Geralt says it like it’s easy. Like it’s obvious. Like it’s something he’s known all along.

Jaskier’s heart swells, so suddenly and so fully he’s not certain he’ll be able to speak. “How did you—?”

“It’s obvious, isn’t it?” Yennefer asks. “You’re the one who always says your writing comes from the heart.”

“It’s what you’ve done ever since we met. I’ve watched you write dozens of songs for the people you care about,” Geralt adds. “Not all of your songs are like that, but most of them are. I didn’t notice, at first, but it starts to get hard to miss when the Path becomes nothing more than you, me, Roach, and your music. It’s— Hmm. It’s—”

Ciri turns next, eyes as brilliant as ever when they fix on Jaskier.

“I’ve never met anyone who loves as many people as deeply as you do,” she gushes without hesitation. “It’s beautiful .”

Geralt nods, and Jaskier looks back into endless gold eyes.

“You put all of yourself into your music, Jaskier,” he says. “And, sometimes, it sounds like— it feels like you’re saying—”

“I love you,” Jaskier says, his head spinning and his palms sweating as all eyes turn back towards him. “I love you all so much.”

Geralt and Yennefer share a look; Ciri grins at the two of them like she’s won some unspoken bet.

At last, Yennefer raises an eyebrow towards him and moves over on the couch she’s sprawled across.

“Then get over here, bard,” she says. “You’ve been saying it for years. Let us say it, too.”

And, gods, was it always going to be this simple?

Jaskier sets aside his lute and all but runs to join them, jumping half out of his skin with Yennefer drapes an arm across his shoulders— when Ciri leans against his leg, seated on the floor, or when Geralt brushes Jaskier’s ankle with his foot, shyer than Jaskier’s ever seen him.

When the three smile at him, Jaskier realizes he’s never felt quite so content in his entire life. If he had known it could be like this, he would have never hesitated to share his songs with those he loves most— those who, somehow, love him in return. A thousand new songs spring through his mind, though he fails to imagine when he’ll ever have time to write them; he fears he doesn’t have the strength to pull himself away from this one spot between a witch and a witcher and their magical daughter at his feet.

“And you just now tell me,” he jests as the other witchers leave the room, offering them the space they need to figure their feelings out. “We’ve wasted so much time not saying what we mean.”

“We’ve all been saying it,” Ciri argues, pinching his calf teasingly. “But no one wanted to admit they heard it. You’re all terribly insecure, the lot of you.”

Well, Jaskier can’t deny that. But there’s more to it than any of them can fully see, he knows— histories and backgrounds that, maybe, one day, they’ll all share and learn.

For now, he settles among the three and revels in the feeling of coming home.

In the following days, they all share many intimate and vulnerable conversations— gods know they needed the space to explain their own love languages and experiences with being misunderstood in those areas— and Jaskier could cry at each word he gives and receives. As he learns more about these people he loves, he can’t help but feel another song blooming within his chest.

He’ll write them all the best song. A song about a witcher and a witch, a princess and her powers. And, maybe, this time, there’ll be a bard involved in the lyrics, too.

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