Of Bards and Witchers

Seventeenth

The last time Julian sees his mother, he is nine years old. It is the day he departs for propper schooling.

    Her hands roam his overcoat, move up to tug tersely at his loose curls in a vain attempt at straightening them, rub dirt that isn't really there from his nose and picks non-existent lint from his shoulders. "Rotten child," she sneers. The boy only swallows. "I told your father, private tutoring does little good for children like you. Spoils you. These folk will set you straight, he'll thank me for it. You'll thank me for it."

    She flits her gaze over the plains of his face, blue eyes as dead as a still sea, fingers brushing against his collar. Her lips purse just before she leans in toward his ear.

    "Thank me, Julian."

    He parts his lips, though silent a second too long-- she grips his face fiercely.

    "Thank me, Julian."

    "Thank you, Mother."

    She is not there to see him off as he leaves, nor is she there when he returns home for the winter-- back littered with bruises and little hands scarred from his knuckles splitting.

    "Died of something or other this past summer," the cook says. He wonders why no one thought to write-- at the same time can't bring himself to mind.

    He begs his father not to send him back to school. His father says next year he may as well grovel. He is ten, if he can't take what life throws his way now he will never make it. He will simply have to do better.

    Next time it is hired help fiddling with the lapels of his coat.

    --

    Jaskier runs his fingers absentmindedly through white strands gone silver in the moonlight, freshly washed and soft like spun silk as they glide through his digits. They pool in his lap as he meets their end and he sinks his fingers in again, running his nails gently over his companions scalp. It's quiet, but he can't bring himself to mind the lack of conversation with the light snore of a dozing Witcher in his lap.

    Geralt looks at peace for once, in the privacy of their little room, with rays of soft light trickling across his normally stoic features. Maybe it's the bed. Maybe it's the comfort of a companion's touch, or maybe it's just because he's actually sleeping for once. Because he can do so knowing the bard will watch over him.

    The bard pulls his hand from the man's locks, smooths them in place, and traces the man's features with a finger. He parts his lips, compelled by some unseen force to sing-- "I see the moon," he murmurs, "the moon sees me."

    "Shining through the leaves of the old oak tree,
    Oh, let the light that shines on me
    shine on the one I love.

    Over the mountain, over the sea,
    back where my heart is longing to be.
    Oh, let the light that shines on me
    shine on the one I love."

    The Witcher shifts against him, only to roll onto his side. Jaskier's lips lilt into a soft smile, his fingers take back to the man's locks.

    "I hear the lark, the lark hears me
    singing from the leaves of the old oak tree.
    Oh, let the light that shines on me
    shine on the one I love.

    Over the mountain, over the sea,
    back where my heart is longing to be,
    Oh, let the light that shines on me
    shine on the one I love."

    He can't quite remember where he learned that one.