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There was nothing but him and the empty countryside. If Radovid rode on long and fast enough, he could almost believe that.
He'd left the main roads as soon as he'd been able, the sight of anyone disturbing his spirit. His brother wouldn't like finding the note he'd left, but he would not be angry. It wasn't like Radovid was running away. Vizimir might even have understood, if his current satisfaction had not clouded the memory of his own premarital worries.
Not only can it work, a voice that sounded suspiciously like his father's murmured in his mind, it can even produce love, in due time. He fought back against it with eagerness, You and mother married for love. Why can't I?
In spite of himself, he knew it was possible, yes. Vizimir was strangely content with Hedwig and, for the past month, had been providing him with countless examples of happily arranged unions throughout recent and ancient history —truly a feat, considering he'd never paid much attention in their lessons. He must have Dijkstra feeding him the information.
The letter had been the last straw and, at dawn, Radovid had taken Winter and ridden away, despite the weather being as foul as his mood. Though that made him wickedly glad too, that he would have a wedding day as grey on the outside as he felt on the inside.
Because Radovid didn't want to think he might be happy. Hope was at the bottom of that box, and glimpsing it only for it to vanish would be too painful. His husband might be cruel, or controlling, or may simply never love him. One way or another, they would still have to spend the rest of their lives tied together, like it or not.
And they hadn't met. Hadn't even exchanged a single letter. Radovid was just expected to walk into a lifelong commitment with his eyes closed. It made his chest tighten.
Vizimir didn't mean for it to happen like this, he knew it. Radovid had been given time, a lot more than royals usually received, and he'd found none to wed out of love or friendship. His brother had held out for as long as he could, but…
The Peace of Cintra had been like a market: some things had been sold, some bought. Radovid was unclear which group he belonged to, but he had definitely been traded.
The alliance was too important to reject. Eilhart and Dijkstra had pushed with all their influence for Queen Cirilla to be the bride, against the loud opposition of the Cintran party and Radovid's discreet —though no less fervent— one. The sole idea that had things gone differently he would be days away from marrying practically a child loosened the knot in his stomach. It could be worse, after all.
The rumbling of thunder interrupted his thoughts, grave as the clouds. He scarcely had time to let out a sigh before the sky opened up again. Winter whined.
"Sorry, girl." The mare's white coat became spotted with grey. They were too far from civilization to find shelter easily.
And he didn't want to go back yet.
They went on, Radovid once again pulled by the dark hurricane of his thoughts.
Except for the Cintran party, most of the guests and laborers had already arrived in the city. A whole week of entertainment and celebration had been set to precede the main event, as was customary in royal weddings. He probably should've attended, but it was not like they needed Radovid in order to get drunk, see plays and joust. Nor his future husband, who had sent word he would be arriving the day before the ceremony.
Other candidates had been considered and rejected. Cintran nobility was still injured from the massacre and diminished by the war. A number of lands and provinces were without lords, and most of those who had survived were either too old, too young, or married already.
A surprising amount of wartime weddings had taken place, in fact, during the uncertain years of their exile, producing unions so varied, both unequal and matched, which may have been frowned upon in peace but now could not —would not— be broken. Philippa and Dijkstra raved against them, spitting venom in private. Secretly, Radovid liked it. Even in the midst of suffering and hardship, people had found a spot of happiness, of love. He had no right to envy those who had known misery while he lounged at court, warm and safe, yet at least in that, he did.
But his jealousy was shapeless, had no name. There was none in his life that he would have chosen for himself. It shouldn't have made a difference. It still did.
He did not care if he sounded spoiled. Even if the marriage ended in love, how far along would that be? Five years, a decade, waiting for something that he did not even know would be real? Nobody had ever loved Radovid if they didn't have to. Why should this man be any different?
In the end, the chosen had been one Julian Alfred Pankratz. His qualifications were that he was the Viscount de Lettenhove —a place which had the court cartographers scrambling to find it, a feat they had not yet managed to accomplish—, and that he was reportedly much beloved of the Cintran crown —despite the fact that nobody could recall him being mentioned once since well before the Lion Cub was born. Vizimir had been skeptical, but apparently Cirilla had given her solemn word on the matter, and the king's spies must have corroborated the truth. Radovid knew nothing else about him.
"Help!"
The scream startled both him and the beast. There was no one to be seen along the muddy road and they were miles away from the nearest town. Who—?
"Help! Please!"
It had to come from the grove. He spurred Winter to go faster, and into it they went, to be greeted by the sight of a man holding on to a fallen tree, attempting to keep the force of the grown river from carrying him off.
Radovid made to approach him, but the man shouted, "Not here! There!"
He was gesturing some distance ahead, to something that the current was carrying, intermittently sinking and refloating. "But—"
"Please!"
In alarmed disbelief, Radovid complied. The mare whined when he made her go into the water, but they reached the imperiled one —a lute, of all things— and he fished it out without issue. He turned back to its owner, who, against all logic, was grinning ear to ear.
"Thank you!"
"Thank me when I've pulled you out!" Radovid fastened the instrument to his back and took Winter to him. "Hold on to the reins!"
The bard, for that he must be, obeyed with one hand, the other following once he was confident in his grip. Slowly and with some effort, Winter stepped backwards until they were all on dry —well, less wet— land.
Radovid's heart chose that moment to hasten. He panted. Gods, he'd never done anything like that before. A shaky sigh from below commanded his attention. He climbed down as the man got to his feet.
"Are you injured?"
"Not at all. I'm quite well," he said, as casually as if they were in a tea room.
"How did you end up like this?"
"Not much of a story." He shrugged. "Was trying to cross the river, dropped my lute, jumped in to get it, you know the rest."
As Radovid held it up, the instrument spat water like a drowning man. It looked fine indeed, if scratched and scraped.
"Are you insane?" he asked as he tried to wipe it as well he could with the lining of his cloak. "Risking your life for a lute?"
The man had the gall to look offended. "Clearly, you're not an artist, sir, if you consider that insanity." His eyes —which were the most startling blue, Radovid suddenly realized— softened when he handed it to him, however. He caressed the wooden neck like one would a newborn's head.
"Thank you." He eyed him up and down. "Aren't you a white knight in shining armor."
"Nothing like that," Radovid rebutted, still a bit out of breath. "If a dragon were to attack, we would be quite doomed, I assure you."
"Dragons can be reasoned with," the man cheerily replied as he fastened the instrument to his back. "Rivers cannot, so I consider yours a far greater feat."
Radovid chuckled in spite of himself. "If you're done flattering, may we go on?"
"That is what I was attempting to do, but I've learned my lesson since."
"On horseback we can cross." He climbed back up on the saddle and held out a hand. "At least if we do it now. It will only get worse."
The man took his arm and, more fluidly than he expected, mounted behind him. Winter was clearly not enthused with diving back into the water, but she took them to the other side with only a few protests.
Once they were a fair distance away, both of them dismounted. Radovid caressed her ears, her sopping white mane. "You've been such a good girl." He pulled out a beet from his satchel and fed it to her. "So brave, so obedient."
"May I?" He saw the bard lift a hand. Radovid nodded, and he petted the mare slowly. "Thank you for your kind service, Miss…"
"Winter."
"Of course it is."
There was a wry, teasing undertone to his voice that seemed ever-present, as pleasant as it was surprising, which drew a chuckle out of Radovid. Nobody spoke like that to him. "I'm just not very original."
"No, no, far be it from me to criticize my rescuer." The man wiped down his coat —which was so soaked it didn't make any difference— and nodded. "Kind sir, I owe you my life, and most importantly, my lute."
Radovid was about to laugh it off, but it died in his throat when the bard gingerly took his hand and pressed a kiss to it. Something that he had experienced thousands of times in his life, and yet, felt quite strange with this man's eyes on him.
He managed to rasp, "You owe me nothing."
"I do, and I'll find a way to repay you. For now, I fear I must beseech your aid again. Is it far to Tretogor, still?"
"Usually, I'd say about a day on foot. But…"
"I will be fine. The rain's already stopped."
"I take it you do not know these parts," Radovid said. "Once the storm has started, it may give reprieve, but it will be short."
"I have not been in a Redanian autumn for a few years," the man admitted. "I put myself in your hands, then."
Radovid examined the sky, then the mare.
"Coppertown," he decided. "'Tis close enough to the capital, and only a few hours from here. I fear we will have to walk, though. Winter is already tired, and carrying both of us would be too much."
The bard's head tilted. "You intend to escort me?"
"Well. It seems rude not to."
"I wouldn't want you to be delayed on my account."
"I am in no hurry."
The man smiled. "Very well, then."
They set out, Radovid holding on to the reins. The sky contained itself, although it still rumbled menacingly. That was the only sound for a while. Strangely, though, Radovid did not feel the quiet needed filling.
He took the time to observe his companion. He was about his age, perhaps a couple of years younger. Besides his trusty lute, he carried only a travel bag. He looked rugged, handsome and, above all, a little… anxious. Radovid wondered if it was the storm itself or if he had other worries on his mind.
When the man suddenly spoke, he could wonder no more.
"You see, I am on my way to the royal wedding."
The whole adventure had managed to make Radovid forget all about that. He tried not to let the bitter remembrance show. "I do not think I need to ask what your business is there." He cast a look at the lute. "When will you be performing?"
The bard let out a short laugh. "On the very day."
"That is well. I should like to hear your ballads," Radovid said.
"You are invited?"
"Certain people want me to attend. So I guess I'll see you there, master…"
For a long moment, the other hesitated.
"Julian. Julian Alfred Pankratz, Viscount de Lettenhove."
It took him a moment to notice Radovid had stopped in his tracks. Winter nudged his back and he remembered himself.
"My lord," he said, thankful that the bow gave him a second more to compose his face.
The bard, the viscount, his future husband, clicked his tongue. "Oh, don't you dare. If I am to be treated as rigid, boring royalty for the rest of my days, I intend for the rest of my days to start as late as possible. Just call me Julian, please."
"You're the one who's to marry— the prince."
His pause went luckily unheeded. Radovid swallowed, unable to assign a reason for why he'd chosen not to reveal himself.
The viscount— Julian did him the honor of not condemning his obvious outburst. "Alas, that would be me."
Radovid's hands held on to the reins too tightly. "I didn't know. I thought— The lute—"
"My most faithful companion. I don't go anywhere without it."
Radovid wished he could hold on to that, tell him how much he liked music, how he played a little too, talk of anything else, but his head was reeling. "And you are traveling alone? With no guards, no escort?"
"Anonymity can be the best shield at times. So yes, on my own. I insisted. I needed the solitude."
"I will leave you, then." Radovid's mouth felt dry.
"You don't have to," the man said. "I find that I am… lighter. It is easier, perhaps, to talk to a stranger about these things."
"I should leave you," he murmured.
"Don't," Julian said. "Please."
Was Radovid supposed to know what the right thing was? He certainly did not, but the man's pleading tone kept him by his side. They resumed walking, the silence now jittery and anxious.
"I do not mean to pry," Radovid said, about to pry, "but you sound… Is this marriage against your will?"
"Well, that sounds very dramatic," Julian replied easily. "I wouldn't have chosen it for myself, that's true enough."
He could barely speak through the shameful bitterness weighing his tongue. "Then it is forced."
"No," the man sighed. "I agreed to it. I don't want it, but it is… useful. Necessary."
They parted to avoid a considerable puddle. Radovid could see one, two, three minuscule waves on it. "You still sound quite despondent about it."
"That's an arranged marriage for you." Julian glanced at him as they put their hoods back up. "You must not be so surprised by the notion, considering you're… I want to say a duke?"
"No." Radovid could not hold his gaze. "But my lord is shrewd."
"Julian," he was reminded. "And peasants don't usually go for rides in such beautiful clothes, or on such gorgeous mounts. My lord."
There was a silence then, while Radovid tried and failed not to fiddle with the reins.
"Perhaps if you told the prince," he murmured, "he may understand and free you from the engagement."
"Yes, that's something royals tend to be, understanding." Julian snorted. "And it's not just about us. It's the treaty and the peace and all that."
His hand went back to graze the lute, almost like he didn't realize he was doing it, and he let out a sigh.
"Duty and similar poppycock. Anyway, it's not that bad. I'll just have to put up with him for… forty, fifty years, give or take."
"Is he so deficient, that you dread this so?"
"Wouldn't know what to tell you. I've never met him."
"Maybe he'll surprise you," Radovid said unconvincingly.
The other man smiled. "You are determined to be a romantic, I see."
Again, he avoided his gaze. "First time I've been accused of such."
"'I should like to hear your ballads,'" Julian echoed. "Not jigs or polkas. You revealed yourself without realizing, my lord."
He knew that he was being baited, but he took it anyway. "Please don't call me that."
"What should I call you, then?"
"I do enjoy ballads," he said, hoping the blatant discourtesy would be ignored. "I understand many a troubadour is coming, have you a favorite?"
Julian chuckled. "I have, but he won't be performing."
"I wonder that he might be the same as mine," Radovid pondered, "for he was unable to come."
"Oh? And who is that?"
"Jaskier." No reaction beyond a blink. "You must have heard of him."
"Hmm…"
"Song of the Seven? Elusive?" The man made a non-committal sound. "Toss a Coin to Your Witcher?"
"That one I have definitely heard."
"He's wonderful. Well, his songs are, I've never seen him perform, but he must be too, his music is— I so wanted him to be there, I pestered my brother about it for weeks and now—"
Realizing he was saying too much at spotting Julian's amused gaze, he cleared his throat. "Well. He won't come, that is the end of it. I'll never hear him sing."
"And you're disappointed." It wasn't a question and it wasn't unkind, yet Radovid found himself with no words, only tearful eyes.
Vizimir had finally given in after weeks of begging —years, really—, not because he was loath to make him happy on his wedding day, but because the bard in question was a complicated figure the king did not like, to say the least, with his association to the Elven cause, rogue mages and witchers. He'd have hired any other troubadour in the Continent to appease Radovid, but he had insisted. There was none who could compare.
In the end, the message had been sent, to his great satisfaction. He might be marrying a complete stranger, but at least he would finally meet the bard whose songs thrummed somewhere deep in his chest no one else could reach. It would be a fair trade, he'd said to himself as he laid in bed, unable to sleep, for once since the arrangement was finalized, with something other than dread. If he could see Jaskier just that one time, hear his voice, he was sure he could brave the wedding. Maybe whatever came after, too.
All that just to receive a curt missive, thanking them for the invitation and stating Jaskier would not be able to attend. Worst of all, that he would be retiring. That was the one hope that had been sustaining Radovid since the match was made, and he'd taken its loss with a lonely ride and melancholy tears that he had to hide in shame.
He'd hoped his present company would be fooled by the falling rain, but he was unlucky, by the way Julian's gaze softened. "Sorry," Radovid said, unable to explain his sorrow. "It's nothing."
"Don't be." Julian's voice was gentle. "And I disagree. I think I was wrong. You may not be an artist, but you have the soul of one."
He did not know what to say to that assessment, as touching as it was incorrect.
"I was just… really looking forward to seeing him." Julian was right, it was easier to say these things to a stranger, even if he should soon not be one. "Meeting him, even."
"I'm sorry."
"It's not your doing." Radovid tried to sketch a smile. "Forgive me, I find myself dispirited."
The other man made a low noise in his throat. "A lot of people are when close to weddings. Or in the rain. And we find ourselves amidst both."
That made the smile more real. "I suppose."
"Is that why you rode out to nowhere, in the middle of a storm?" The viscount's gaze was piercing, perceptive. "Because you were upset?"
Radovid bit his lip. That clearly was reply enough, for the other man laughed.
"Now, now, I am not teasing you. I appreciate the dramatics." His breath stuttered when Julian put a wet lock of Radovid's hair into his hood, brushing a raindrop —or a tear— away with his thumb. "As well as the fact that they allowed me to meet as sweet a creature as yourself."
He averted his eyes, knowing full well he was flushed to the tips of his ears. Bless the hood and curse the gods, his future husband was flirting with him, and he didn't even know it. Radovid did not know whether to laugh or cry.
"We are not too far," he mumbled lamely, pretending not to notice Julian's amusement as he started to promote the miner settlement of Coppertown as if it was the lap of civilization and luxury. But the viscount accepted the change in topic gracefully, and they kept occupied.
By the time they reached the town, they were well and truly drenched. Radovid guided them to the Smitten Knight, where they left Winter to the stable girl and walked in among sighs of relief. The dining room was packed and the wooden floors slippery.
"Good evening."
"If ye say so," the innkeeper quipped, eyeing them up and down. "Eating or staying?"
"Both," Radovid replied. "Your two best rooms, please."
"Ah," the viscount said as he fished in his many pockets, "I can't afford that. I'm not carrying much, precautions, you know. Dear madam, which room for, um…?"
"No, no. Let me."
"You're very kind, but I assure you I can take care of my own." A spark of mischief appeared in Julian's eyes. "Or we could share."
The vision of the two of them staying in the same room, sleeping on the same bed, when mere hours hence they would do so after the wedding, was too much for Radovid. "I insist."
At Julian's nod, he turned to the woman, who was watching them with a raised eyebrow. He produced the money, lest she think them grifters and throw them out, and from that point on it was all even friendlier.
They found a nook to eat their stew —which would have tasted worse without the chill— where it was near impossible to talk with the ruckus going on around them. Radovid eyed the lute, hoping Julian might decide to perform, but he gave no indication. Given the noise, it was probably for the best. Once they were sated, both were taken to their respective rooms, baths were prepared, fires were lit and clothes were hung to dry.
The look Julian had cast his way as he closed his door made him shiver, not quite from the chill.
Radovid lounged in the bathtub longer than he needed to. Lost in his thoughts, as they were a maze he could not escape, albeit one filled with as much pleasure as trepidation.
Julian was… He was… oh, he was clever and charming, and strange and sensitive, and flirtatious and funny, and even if he turned out to be as bad as Radovid at playing the lute, that would only turn him more loveable in his eyes.
But he didn't know who Radovid was, and now was much too late to admit it without earning his scorn for the deceit.
His stomach churned. He could not bring himself to tell him. He had to. Otherwise, it would be much worse when Julian discovered it at the palace. But Radovid could not bear the idea of his warm gaze turning disdainful when he realized just who he'd been with.
Yet he could not stay away.
"Yes?"
Out in the hallway, Radovid's nerves had not tempered at all. He fidgeted with his sleeve. "It's me."
"Ah, it's you." Julian's voice sounded amused.
"Are you, um— decent? May I come in?"
"No to the first one, yes to the second!" Radovid hesitated. He heard a chuckle. "I've just dressed, if that is what you mean, dear one."
His face was already burning and he hadn't even entered the room. That had to be a bad omen, but he simply couldn't stay out, not when Julian's voice was enchanting as a siren's.
Just like his own, the room was wide and well-furbished, with a desk, chair, bed and bathtub. The viscount had left the lute on the first and just now thrown himself on the third with a profound sigh that made Radovid smile.
"Ah, that's nice," Julian murmured. "Have I thanked you yet? You pluck me from the river, you guide me through a strange land and now you get me a hot bath and a soft bed."
"And I have already covered breakfast," he quipped.
"My. How could I possibly be more indebted to you?"
"Well," Radovid began, disbelieving that he was even saying it, "there is one way you can repay me."
"Is that so," Julian murmured.
"You could play me a song."
A laugh, then a pause. He lifted his gaze, worried he had offended, but Julian was just sitting forward, something searching in his eyes.
"You mean it," he stated. Radovid could not stand to stare back, nor to look away.
"If you'd like."
"Oh, darling, you truly are sent from above." Julian leaned back. "A mysterious, beautiful stranger with a full purse and a gentle soul. My prayers have been answered, that much is a fact."
Radovid huffed a laugh. "How can you just say stuff like this, and—?" And sound like you mean it.
The viscount chuckled. "You are delightful, sweet thing."
His lips parted and he glanced up at Julian before looking away again.
"It bothers you that I call you these things."
"Doesn't… bother me," Radovid breathed out, "just…"
"I would gladly taste your name on my tongue, if you would but give it to me."
The little noise that escaped him should have embarrassed Radovid, but he was too wrapped up in Julian's talent to give caress without touch.
"You will not tell me." It was not a question. Despite it all, Radovid shook his head. "That is quite rude."
His mouth felt dry again. "Is it?"
"To deprive me of its sweetness? Hmm." The man's fingers brushed against the blanket. "But you could make amends."
It took all of Radovid's self-control to not walk up to the bed and kneel before it. "I, er—" He cleared his throat. "Now that you're settled, I will leave you."
Julian tilted his head. "Will you?"
There was something in his voice that brought more warmth to his face. "I— should leave you."
"Should you?" The ghost of a smile danced on his lips as he rose, walked up to him. Radovid swallowed.
"Yes," he murmured.
"Hmm." Julian's hand came to rest upon his cheek, thumb caressing the corner of his mouth in so intimate a manner that Radovid's eyes fluttered and his legs felt like jelly. "Tarry just a little."
He leaned in. Radovid could feel his breath, so close—
He turned slightly. Julian pulled away, hand falling and face rueful.
"I'm so sorry," he said. "I completely misinterpreted—"
"No," Radovid interrupted. "No, you didn't. You—"
He covered his face with his hands, let out a groan.
"I'm the one who's sorry. I have—" He tried to take a deep breath. "It's me. I'm him. I'm the prince."
He watched, mournful, as Julian's expression turned from guilty regret to amusement, then to disbelief. "You're not joking."
"I am not."
The viscount took a step back, shook his head.
"I'm sorry," Radovid hastened to say.
"You—" Julian's jaw worked. "You came to find me. You knew all along."
"No," he pleaded. "It was coincidence. Believe me. At the river, I didn't know it was you. Then you said your name and I…"
"You could have revealed yourself."
"Yes. But I just… I was taken aback. And then, you sounded like… you hated it. Him. Me. And…"
"And so you decided to lie further," Julian spat out.
"No! Well, I— I swear, everything else was true."
He wanted to say more, but his tongue refused to find the words. This silence was heavy, and the way Julian was looking at him…
By virtue of not being expected to do or be anything, Radovid had never disappointed anybody before. It felt like an eel settling in his stomach.
"Leave me."
"Julian—"
"Your Highness," he bit out, "thank you for the kindness shown, but I find myself tired. I will see you for our arranged wedding."
Radovid let out a breath, looked down. "My lord."
Over the past few weeks, on the rare occasion that Radovid's imagination had allowed him to picture his betrothed in a good light, it had gnawed at him, the idea of being rejected, the dread of being found wanting.
Now, he need not imagine.
"Where have you been!?" Radovid could swear the king itched to grab his ear, but remembered himself in time. "You're getting married tomorrow! You're soaking wet! And your clothes are not done yet, you have not greeted the guests…"
"I'm sorry. You're right. I just… I needed to be alone. To think."
And to ruin any potential happiness for himself, clearly. That morrow, he'd woken up from what little sleep he'd managed to catch to find Julian had left early, without leaving any note or farewell. He had no right to expect different, and yet had to hide his disillusion from the bleary-eyed innkeeper before going out to retrieve Winter, who at least seemed happy to see him.
His brother was as easily angered as placated. He patted Radovid's cheek. "Now, now, you're forgiven. I'm just glad you came back. I had half a mind to send a battalion after you, thinking you may run away!"
"Nothing of the sort," he choked out. "I will not jeopardize the treaty if I can help it, you must know that."
He knew he was selfish and unthinking, but he had no wish for war. Would his lies be enough to make Cintra reconsider? The lump in his throat tightened.
Vizimir's gaze softened. "Come now, go to your rooms and dry up. Your intended is here."
"Already?" His heart hastened. He'd alternated between walking and riding Winter at a slow pace, conscious of the mare's exhaustion, but he still expected to get there faster than Julian, who must have continued solely on foot.
Or perhaps he expected him to turn tail and run after he'd found out Radovid was a two-faced fool.
"Did I stutter? Go on!"
The hot bath didn't ease Radovid's trepidation, nor did the change of clothes. Too soon, he was once again by the king, awaiting. What kind of man could find himself more nervous after meeting his betrothed than before? Clearly only one who had fucked up royally.
The doors opened, and the man who walked through looked quite different from what he expected. With his combed hair, shaved face, rich clothes, and missing lute, Radovid could almost pretend it was the first time they saw each other.
"Julian Alfred Pankratz, Viscount de Lettenhove, Baron of Marnadal, Lord of Coldwater and Smallton, of the court of Her Royal Majesty, Queen Cirilla of Cintra."
"Your Majesty," Julian bowed. By his side, Vizimir said something he barely heard. Then, the viscount turned to him.
"My lord," Radovid said, his own voice faltering to his ears. "Be most welcome."
"Your Highness." Julian was perfectly impersonal as he took his hand. "'Tis an honor to meet you, as it will be to fulfil the treaty of peace our two great peoples have agreed upon."
"I feel the same," he said, hollowly. As soon as it was polite, Julian let go.
"Well then!" Vizimir clapped once. "I see you two are already getting along, excellent. Now, Radovid, come with me. Viscount, you will be shown to your rooms."
He opened his mouth to say 'Wait', but Julian had already bowed and followed Tildy out.
"See?" His brother's voice in his ear and grip on his shoulder were eagerly enthusiastic. "That wasn't so terrible, right? He seems respectful, and I would say not bad-looking. Then again, what the hell do I know. Ah, Zenon, the banquet is all…?"
As soon as Vizimir was distracted, Radovid fled. He hoped to feel better in the well-known safety of his rooms, but his mood did not improve, even if someone had taken care to lit a fire.
The courtyard was deserted. The rain had started again, harder than before. It would last for a few more days, he thought, definitely for the wedding, and suddenly the idea was morose. He watched as the downpour punished the unused horse poles, hitting the wood without mercy. Suddenly remembering something, he called for Nadalfrid to give him instructions.
The rest of the day passed among fruitless nerves. The last preparations were done too quickly to engage his mind. Another ride was out of the question, even if the storm hadn't still been raging on, he'd abused poor Winter enough these past days. He tried to read, but could not focus on any book for long.
He didn't know if he was afraid or eager to see Julian at dinner. He didn't get to find out —when he finally mustered the courage to go down, Vizimir informed him that the viscount had begged to be excused, citing exhaustion. Radovid wondered if Julian may not be currently making a rope out of the very expensive sheets in the guest room, and could not blame him too much.
Thank Melitele Vizimir could talk for ten men, because he was not in the mood to pretend to be merry. His brother tried a half-hearted joke about tomorrow, but even he must have noticed Radovid's expression, because he swiftly changed the subject and began to tell —for the ninth time this month— the story about the mean cook at the stag hunt. Hedwig rolled her eyes fondly as everybody else pretended to listen.
When the meal finally ended —if only for him, who had the excuse of his commitment the day after, and not for those poor souls who stayed behind at the banquet—, Radovid took a goblet with him. He would've picked up the bottle, but even in his despondency could foresee that having a hangover during his wedding would be ill-advised.
It was lucky, for the damage was minimal when, after closing the door to his rooms, someone behind his back said, "Hi."
"Gods!" He turned, heart in his throat, to see the least person he expected.
"Sorry!" Julian twitched. "Didn't mean to scare you. I would've come… officially, but I didn't think it would be appropriate, considering it's, you know. Before the wedding."
"How did you…? That's okay." Radovid crouched. The wine had stained the carpet. He looked up. "Wait, do you mean to say…"
He fiddled with the goblet. He saw Julian look down, then brush his hand against something on the table.
"Your man came to me this afternoon," he muttered. "Said he was told my lute was damaged by the water and needed care."
"And is it recovered?"
The viscount hummed. "They brought it back a few minutes ago. Good as new."
"Good," Radovid murmured. "I'm glad."
He could not decipher Julian's eyes on him. "Thank you."
"Don't mention it. It was the least I could do." It was now or never. "I am truly sorry I lied to you, for many reasons, but first among them must be my failure as a prince. Please, do not punish Redania for my wrongdoing."
"I—"
"No, let me finish. I acted ignobly and falsely. If I have caused you to reconsider—"
"Your Highness—"
"—I beg you for another chance. I do not intend to force you into this." Radovid swallowed. "I did not get much of a choice myself. But I do wish for peace. And I do not want to ruin the treaty."
The other man opened his mouth, closed it. "I told you," he spoke carefully, "I intend to do my duty."
"And similar poppycock." Radovid's weak attempt to lighten the mood actually made the viscount smile.
"Precisely."
"Thank you." He'd been fidgeting with the cup so long, he'd practically learned its engravings by heart.
Julian sighed deeply. When Radovid looked up, he was caressing one of the lute's strings, seemingly lost in thought.
"I'm sorry too," he said, surprisingly. "I was harsh on you."
Radovid's throat worked. "You had every right to be upset."
"Ah." Julian tilted his head. "That's… Hmm."
"I didn't lie about anything else," he added. "Everything else I told you is true."
"I believe you," Julian said quietly after a moment.
He stared at the fire, beginning to turn to embers. Radovid left the goblet on a shelf, sick of his own fiddling.
"What other reasons?"
"Hm?"
"You said you regretted lying, for many reasons," Julian elaborated. "I ask, what are they?"
"I…" He was needling him, and had every right to, but Radovid's stomach twisted. "It was selfish and I should have—"
"No, I know that. You've mentioned." Julian leaned back against the table. "Is there another reason?"
"Ah— What do you mean?"
"Do I please you?"
Once again, Radovid's face warmed up, but there was no reason to lie. "More than I thought possible."
"Hmm."
"I didn't— Not in a bad way," he hurried to add, "just—"
"Just, you thought I would be cruel, or stupid, or both. Don't fret. I feared the same of you." Julian plucked a string again. "That's why I was so anxious I could confide in a complete stranger."
"Why did you tell me? Who you were, I mean."
"Did I?" There was a pause. "You'd just saved my life. It seemed gauche not to be upfront. And, on that topic… Well, the truth is, I have little right to be cross. You see, I kind of, technically, from a certain point of view, lied to you too."
"About what?" Radovid asked cautiously.
"I'll tell you." Julian paused. "No, actually, it's better if I don't."
To Radovid's confusion, he turned around. For a moment he thought the man would leave, but then he grabbed the lute, put it on his lap, took a breath. And began to sing.
"Spring will return, on the road the rain will fall. Hearts will be warmed by the heat of the sun. It must be thus, for fire still smolders in us all. An eternal fire, hope for each one."
The notes faded in the air. Radovid could only stare, as confused as he was transfixed. Julian's voice was… difficult to describe. His lute playing was leagues ahead of Radovid's. And it was more than that.
"The Eternal Fire."
"Indeed. Or Winter, as I prefer to call it." Julian's eyes were sharp. "I am honored that you named your mount after one such song."
"How did you know it was that and not the season?"
"Didn't until right now." He smiled cheekily. "It's one of my favorites, if you must know."
Perhaps Radovid could've claimed otherwise, but he was too enthralled. "You said you didn't know Jaskier's songs."
"Right," the man hummed. "That is not true, for I know them intimately. Better than any other soul, I dare claim."
"You— But— What do you—" Radovid stammered. Julian's impish smile didn't help him out. "Why would you lie about that?"
The viscount leaned forward. "I think you know."
Even just standing there he felt short of breath. "I would like to hear you say it."
"Would you?"
"Julian," he breathed out, exasperated, and received a laugh.
"Very well, then." The viscount rose, sketched a gracious bow. "I am the one and only, the bard Jaskier."
The laugh that came was too bright and eager to be suppressed, even if Radovid tried to do so, pressing his hand against his mouth. Julian —Jaskier— looked delighted.
"Oh, none of that. If we are to be married, I strongly request that you do not attempt to hide such wonderful sounds from me. And I assure you, you will be making many."
"No, it cannot be."
"You accuse me of lying?" His tone was light, his eyes dark. "I could always give you a private recital to prove myself."
Radovid stammered, closed his mouth, laughed again, shook his head. "I cannot believe this."
"Me neither," Jaskier quipped, "but to be honest, I've seen destiny make weirder somersaults. I've learned to just take the good ones when they come."
"And this is? Good?"
Jaskier's eyes were slow and thoughtful as they gazed into his. "I think it could be, Your Highness."
Somehow, he plucked up the courage to shorten the distance between them and say, "Call me Radovid."
"Radovid." Jaskier savored the name, a smile blooming on his face. "I was right, it is sweet."
"Is Julian, then…?" Radovid shook his head, amused. "Are you even a viscount? Or a baron, a lord… Not that I care, but I cannot believe you have managed to fool my brother's entire council."
The bard barked out a laugh. "Oh, I am. All of it. Though, to be honest, most of that was Ciri fattening my résumé for the occasion. And to take the piss out of me, wretched girl. You should call me Jaskier, if you like." He looked thoughtful. "Although that may not be such a great idea. How do you think the king will feel about a minstrel brother-in-law?"
"I don't give a rat's arse." Even distracted by Jaskier's low chuckle, Radovid remembered something. "Wait, I thought you were retiring?"
Jaskier scratched his head. "To be honest, I wasn't sure how you, well, the prince, was going to take my craft. I didn't think I would be allowed to continue it. Bird in a cage, staid life at court and all that."
"That'd be doing it wrong. Still, perhaps we can be discreet until things have settled." Radovid mulled it over. "But... must you? Be caged?"
The bard blinked. "I suppose, if my lord husband gives me leave, I could go on a tour."
"Could your lord husband go with you?" Radovid asked shyly. "Assuming you two get along fine."
"Maybe. I think we got off on a strange foot," Jaskier mused. "But let us not waste time to fix it. Radovid, will you forgive me for deceiving you?"
The bard held his hand out. Radovid offered him his, slowly.
"Well, I would be quite the hypocrite, wouldn't I, Jaskier, if I refused."
"Indeed, you would." When Jaskier bent to press his lips to his knuckles, his eyes did not move from his own. "May I kiss you?"
"I think you should," Radovid said, breathless. "In fact, I insist you do."
"Well, then," Jaskier hummed. "I have heard one must always honor a bridegroom's request."
He cupped Radovid's face and pressed his mouth to his. Radovid sighed, throwing his arms around his neck with abandon. He heard Jaskier make a sound, after which his arms, strong beyond expectation, wrapped around Radovid's frame, and now it was his turn to moan.
"Yet I have also heard it told," Jaskier murmured when they parted, "that it's bad luck for two people to see each other the night before they wed."
Radovid smiled against his lips. "I can close my eyes."
The day after, the wedding took place, and was widely agreed to overall be a lovely affair. Many a lord and lady who in the past had felt slighted were happy that His Highness had been caught at last, and those who dreaded being matched to him breathed in relief. The Viscount de Lettenhove, now Prince Consort, did seem the eccentric sort, taking out a lute and singing in the middle of the banquet. But such oddities were permitted in royalty, and if nothing else, the besotted look on the Crown Prince's face throughout the performance —which was reported by most guests to be 'quite good, but nothing like Master Jaskier's work'— heralded a successful marriage. Shame about the rain, though.