Chapter Text
Two weeks having past from the descent of the mountain and two weeks into his journey towards the coast, Jaskier was resting his swollen, blistered feet at a rundown tavern. He was fairly hidden in the back of the building, with most of the other patrons having not paid any attention to him as he’d walked away from the bar, pint of piss-poor ale in hand, and sat down on an empty bench. Sequestered behind a wooden pillar, keeping his profile out of the view of the tavern’s door, he settled back against the wall and propped his feet up on the chair opposite him. He let out a long sigh as he took his first gulp of the rather disgusting tasting beer. Gods, sometimes he really missed having rich full-bodied wines at his disposal all day, every day whilst meandering about in court. He took another sip, then grimaced as the foul-tasting liquid made its way down his throat and settled heavily into his stomach.
He continued to sit in this way, legs propped out in front of him, one ankle crossed over the other stretching out on the brittle looking chair, his back slouched into the stone-clad walls as his hands cupped the tankard resting between his thighs.
His feet were aching, blistered and red-raw, he knew if he took his worn-down boots off they would most likely be bleeding. His hands weren’t that much better off. Scratched to hell as they were, cracked and dry from being out in the sun too long holding too tightly on to the straps of his bags and lute. His upper body was aching just as much as his legs and feet were. Protesting loudly at him at night whenever he moved positions on the dirt-covered ground that was his bed each night. But none of this hurt and made his soul ache as much as the words currently bouncing round in his head. On repeat. Constantly.
Those words that woke him up from dreams yelling them at him at full volume, to the whispered mantra following him around as he walked down the side of the mountain, towards any path that looked like it might take him towards the sea. Towards the coast. Away from everything that was up there. Back on that mountain top.
He really needed to get some proper sleep, in a proper bed, with a proper pillow and a proper blanket, and maybe perhaps he could get a nice warm bath? It didn’t even need to be a very hot one, just a bath with luke-warm water, something to wash off the week’s grime, and the past filled with his regrettable life choices.
Why did he feel the need to fill up any silence with his voice? He couldn’t blame Geralt, not really. The man had clearly just had his heartbroken, again might he add, by the wickedly alluring sorceress.
And Jaskier for some godforsaken reason, after just witnessing the showdown between them, thought he’d be what? Welcomed? Pulled into a hug by Geralt, because 'See, look Geralt, your magically annoying, often trouble attracting bard is still here with you’. He can’t believe how stupid he’d been. He knew at a time like that Geralt would want his space, want to be left alone.
He should have just quietly picked up his things, said his goodbyes to Borch and told Geralt that he’d go find Roach. Then perhaps he wouldn’t be sat in this tavern by himself, feet blistered to hell, smelling like someone’s poured the entire contents of their towns sewage all over him. Perhaps Geralt would have found another contract by then, another monster to hunt and therefore, get distracted by.
Then again. Perhaps not. His words must have held some truth in them. They came out too quick and precise to have not been meant in some, small way.
He raised the tankard to his lips again and drained the contents, before slamming the cup onto the wooden table in front of him, using the back of his hand to wipe his mouth. His other hand came to run its fingers through his dirt-covered hair, and then both were cradling his head in their clutch as he dragged in deep lung fulls of air. Trying to contain an outburst that his mind was doing its best to let out.
He let the low hum and murmur of the bustling crowd of peasants and merchants drown out any more of his thoughts, slipping into an easy haze and letting his mind wander. Never straying back into angst territory. He was sick to death of feeling sorry for himself.
He heard the jingle of the tavern door open and felt a brief gush of cold air enter along with the cause of the disturbance, but did not lookup.
He was thoroughly daydreaming now, hands resting once again on his lap as he gazed sleepily at the wall right in front of him. Oblivious as a rather elegantly dressed, and lean-looking man walked towards his table after having stayed still to glance over each patron in the building. Upon spotting Jaskier he had unrooted his feet from the ground and begun to walk towards the bard.
“Excuse me, Sir.”
The man had reached his table now and was stood by the chair that Jaskier had his feet resting upon. There was no movement from Jaskier, too absorbed in his daydreaming to filter in the rest of the tavern and people around him.
“Excuse me. But you’re the Right Honourable Julian Pankratz Lettenhove correct?”
Jaskier suddenly blinked as his ears picked up on those five words that he had not heard directed at him for well over a decade. He turned his head frantically around the room, hoping and praying that luck was on his side tonight and that no one else near him had heard this stranger speak.
“Keep it down, would you? The whole tavern doesn’t need to know that,” then Jaskier looked up and took in the stranger standing in front of him before saying, “And who’s asking anyway?”
This man, the stranger, was well dressed in white stockings up to his knees, matched with his stark brown coloured trousers that were attached seamlessly to them, his shirt was a pristine white, with its wrinkles ironed out, and the surcoat he wore was a darker brown than the breaches, yet they too matched the patterns on his doublet well. His shoes were rather unsuited to the treacherous and muddy grounds of Dalvik, and made him stand out like a sore thumb in this crowd of farmworkers and labourers.
In fact, his entire outfit and the air in which the man held himself, made him stand out. And that was before your eyes even took in the rapier at his side, which just so happened to have a very recognisable sigil engraved onto its hilt.
Jaskier would recognise the house of Lettenhove anywhere. After all, it was his families own coat of arms.
“My name is Barnsley Fawcett. I am but just a messenger my Lord. I am here at the behest of the council and Viscount Lettenhove’s own request. I am too-”
“Hush will you, quieten down,”
Jaskier was pale-faced now, the colour had drained from him the moment the messenger had spoken. He furtively looked around the tavern once more, before removing his feet from the wooden chair and indicated for the man to take it's place.
“Sit down, and whisper what you have got to say to me so urgently and do it quietly, please. I don’t need anyone here knowing me by that name.”
Jaskier breathed out the words hurriedly, side-eyeing a patron sat not two feet away from him, who had looked up after seeing the weirdly dressed man brush dirt from the seat, before sitting down on the chair. Jaskier gave a little eye-roll in ‘what are they like huh? the rich’ and the burly man who had been staring, grunted before turning back to his ale and conversation.
“Sorry my Lord. I do not mean to out you here. But you are needed back home, you are to come back to Lettenhove immediately as-” the man was clutching tightly onto a slightly crumpled envelope with a mulled-red wax seal, another familiar sight he had not seen for years, and his eyes were widening as he tried to get Jaskier to understand the importance of this unlikely visit.
Jaskier sighed.
“-I have a letter here explaining everything. Your father is sick my Lord, and he has requested you to come back and take up the position you were given as your birthright.”
He gulped at the words, mind reeling, as he reached for the letter. He broke the wax seal with deft fingers and unfolded the paper. His mind couldn’t stop racing as his eyes swept across the page, taking in the words of ‘I am very sick...have less than a moons turn to live...you are the only air….cousin Ferrant has taken up a royal position...Lettenhove needs you’. The words felt heavy in his head, fear and dread filling his stomach.
He folded up the letter. Placed it into a pocket in the inside of his doublet, took a deep breath in then looked up at his messenger. He knew what he had to do. Whether he wanted to or not. Whether it pleased him or not.
Duty called.
“You have a horse and a few men ready and waiting for me?”
“Of course my Lord, they are just outside, a little ways down the path, Sir. They will be very relieved upon seeing you. We have travelled far and wide, you are not an easy man to find.”
Jaskier stood up, buttoned up the rest of his doublet, knowing full well who he was about to see would expect him to look a lot sharper, more elegant and all-around less dirty than the man about to walk out the tavern doors and greet his entourage.
“That was the plan,” he sighed. “Obviously I wasn’t as hidden as I had hoped.”
“I don’t know my Lord, the name Jaskier, through us off. We had very little to go on, but you know your Country, and it does so happen to have the best intelligence network in the world.”
“Hmm yes, Redania Intelligence Officers. I bet they asked for a fair price for this information?” Jaskier snorted at the sheepish look on the man’s face.
He rolled his eyes as the man attempted to mumble out how it wasn’t that much, and that they didn’t have to offer much of their services back in return, but the bard started to tune him out. He had grabbed his bag and his lute and had started to make his way towards the tavern’s doors. This may very well be the last time he’s in a place like this.
He felt a wave of sadness overcome him as he looked about the room, picking up places where he could imagine himself and Geralt sitting, the witchers back against a wall, front-facing all exits at all times, always on the watch, places where he himself might have trailed along, lute in hand as he crooned out lyrics to his songs. An image filled his mind as he remembered times where Geralt had let him sit on their table, and warble his way through the songs, directing them at his Whitewolf, gaze steady and eyes fixed upon each other. A small smile playing at Geralt’s lips as he attempted to not laugh along with the rest of the crowd at the bard’s lewd and vulgar words.
He shook his head to clear it. Pushing away from the wave of sadness. He needed his mind to be clear. To be empty of thought. He needed to put his nobleman’s shoes back on, and become the Lord he was brought up to be.
His people needed him.
And for once he was okay with it. He had wanted a purpose. Something to do with himself after watching Borch fall from that Mountain top and (not) die, it had put things into perspective.
He had thought about what he had wanted, who he had wanted, and when he had laid his heart on his sleeve and got nothing in return, he realised he had spent twenty years of his life chasing after something that didn’t want him back.
He needed to move on.
And what better way than to hold himself up in his family estates castle, and take back the name he had thrust aside so eagerly after leaving Oxenfurt, take it back and hide behind it.
Geralt wouldn’t know where to find him or who he was.
He could start fresh.