Of Bards and Witchers

Eleventh

Just over half a year passes before their paths cross again-- in Oxenfurt, of all places. On accident.

Jaskier lowers his head into his hand as Matilda and Roderick take turns sipping their drinks and droning on-- "Julian, honestly," the woman says, "think of the academy."

"You're a phenomenal professor--"

"I can't imagine the backroads to nowhere might provide any sort of intelligent conversation--"

-- and lifts it just in time to see the White Wolf of Rivia enter the tavern just down the road.

The table lurches dangerously in his haste to stand-- "Julian--!" and he winces as he pulls away, but he's sick of the lecturing and the belittling masquerading as intelligent conversation and gods damn him if he passes up this chance. He's booking it down the cobblestone path before Matilda can snap about his indecency or Roderick can lift himself from his seat.

A hand fists into the sleeve of his shirt just as he passes through the threshold. It takes a moment to wrestle his focus, but once his gaze settles on their face the familiarity strikes him hard in the stomach. A smile settles pleasantly on her lips.

"Julian?" She questions.

He feels sick.

A fifth because he never listens.

He opens his mouth to speak, but his throat feels dry all of a sudden. "Why are you here?"

She peers at him from his bedside. "Why?"

"I caught word of your--"

"Jaskier."

His head snaps to the side.

"Geralt--"

Its been just over half a year but he's changed hardly at all. His hair has lengthened, perhaps, and his scruff is unkempt, but his eyes are still alive and-- he must have sensed something, to approach him first. He looks as if he'd rather be anywhere else.

"A Witcher in Oxenfurt?"

-- he turns to face her again. Her nose scrunches in a familiar manner, one which he used to find cute until he realized. Disgust etches its way into her brow.

"Julian--!" She cries.

"Hmm."

--

"Julian, don't be silly," she breathes.

Cynthia brushes across his bottom lip with her thumb, lips quirked as she peers at him. He leans toward her, hands running up her waist as she straddles him in the parlor seat-- she giggles, something akin to windchimes in spring and birdsong, and turns her face away.

"Will you play something for me tonight?" She asks.

"Of course." He'd play until he bled for her.

"Silly," she echoes. "Silly Julian."

He will.

--

"You never listen, Julian!"

Her palm meets the flesh of his cheek, and then she is shoving and he is careening and then sprawled onto her sad excuse for a couch-- "Listen to me!" He blinks up at her, fisting at the cushions.

"You are not happy," Alexander says. It isn't a question.

Her hands find their way into his hair but they are scornful; she tugs him forward sharply and he reaches out and her hand comes down to strike him again-- he doesn't know what he's done this time, can't bring himself to care. He takes one wrist into his hand and then the other and she is feral. Her biting remarks are shrill in his ear and the silence is stifling but this is all too loud.

He blinks up at her.

"Julian--!" She cries.

And then he is kneeling outside the temple school with blood on his hands-- his own, he later learns, from the blood flowing from his nose. His heart beats so fiercely in his chest that he fears he might wake the entire village. A breath shudders out of him; he hasn't a clue how he got here.

--

Geralt's presence, as it turns out, is enough to dissuade Cynthia from engaging in any sort of conversation-- and while on one hand the prejudices toward his companion disquiet him, tonight he is grateful for it. When it is apparent that he has no intention of leaving the man, she mumbles something about how nice it was to see him and turns away.

He lets out a breath he didn't know he was holding, it hisses past his teeth of its own accord.

"Julian," the Witcher hums.

"No." The sharpness of his tone startles himself. Geralt merely inclines his head.

"Hmm," he says. Then, "Jaskier."

And that is that, it seems. Geralt questions none of it, either doesn't care or is waiting on him to elaborate; only returns to his table and puts aside his things make room.

A smile works its way onto his lips.

Who is Jaskier to turn down such an invitation?