Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Jaskier can hear his own heartbeat.

Geralt is gone, Yen is gone, Ciri is gone.

The alley he’s ducked into is too generously named. Narrow enough for a man his size, not wide enough for anyone to walk comfortably. It smells strongly or urine and vomit, offerings from the nearby tavern. His own breath hits his face, hot and quick.

There’s a noise. Snap. He doesn’t need to see the source to recognize it. He covers his mouth. Snap.

Yennefer isn’t coming this time, he thinks. Geralt is away somewhere. And the entire Continent is after Ciri.

Snap.

Jaskier only has one hunter, but he is much easier prey.

Snap.

His eyes water. He hates it.

Snap.

He remembers his tears drying almost instantly when the flame grew close, last time.

Snap.

A door hits the stone wall. A veritable army of soldiers on their night off —one would hope— stumble out. The jig they’re loudly ruining isn’t his, but it still sounds angelic. “At the top of this mountain, my love’s castle stands…”  Two are carrying a fellow who’s had too many, another leans on the tavern wall to heave. A few have found company, and although some can’t wait for their pleasure, others go on with the group. They trip on, uncaring of the companions left behind.

Jaskier waits. When the herd passes the alley, he merges with it, half-singing, and is welcome without fuss.

He dares look back once. Rience is no longer there. Too many witnesses, too many risks. Thankfully, the mage is still a coward.

A soldier’s arm comes to rest heavily on Jaskier’s shoulders as she gurgles the lyrics. Apparently, she’s a maudlin drunk. “It’s a beacon for a sailor on a dark winter’s night…”

Jaskier lets out a shaky breath.

He can’t do this again.

“We don’t need… whatever it is you’re selling.”

The servant looks him up and down. Her face is sour, but he can’t really blame her. He stuck with the drunk platoon for a good while till he gathered the courage to flee alone, and then it was a lot of running and walking and panicking. It’s probably only thanks to a lifetime of palace training that the poor woman doesn’t pinch her nose.

“Not a merchant, actually. A minstrel.” He wiggles the lute case. “At your service.”

“I don’t handle the entertainment.” She has crossed her arms. “You’ve got to send a request for that.”

She makes to close the door. He puts his boot in. “Wait. Please.” He swallows. “I— I was invited to come.”

Her eyes narrow. “Invited?”

“By Prince Radovid.”

He can see several things on her face. Disbelief, the urge to laugh, but most relevantly to him, doubt. He should probably be thankful that the prince's eccentricities are notable enough for this.

“Wait here.”

Jaskier makes an effort to smile as she leaves him out. Exposed. He fiddles with his tuning fork as he glances over his shoulder. It’s irrational, he knows it. Last Rience knew, he was in Dorian, much closer to Novigrad or Oxenfurt, with no reason to go to Tretogor. The mage can’t know he’s here. He’s safe. Or will soon be, assuming Radovid—

The door swings open again. A man this time, with dark braided hair. Jaskier knows him, he realizes. This is Radovid’s servant, who announced him last time.

“Master bard.”

Finally, he steps in. A shiver goes through him when the door closes behind him.

“Thank you,” he says, and keeps in the urge to tell him to lock up.

He trails after the servant like a lost lamb. These are the corridors meant for the staff, clearly. Very few ornaments, people in modest garb coming and going without pause. Jaskier doesn’t mind. That’s why he went to the back door.

Eventually, they cross a threshold and they are in the actual palace, the palatial part of the palace.

“Yes, I suppose that’s it,” the man says, and Jaskier realizes he’s said it out loud.

“Very nice,” he goes on, because he can’t stop rambling now, “very, you know, illustrious, very regal, very grand. Very everything.”

“Very,” the servant agrees, so seriously that either he has no sense of humor or he’s immensely enjoying taking the piss out of Jaskier. “We’re here.”

Jaskier glances inside. Definitely not Radovid’s. “Shouldn’t I—”

“His Highness asked me to get you settled.” He makes to take Jaskier’s lute off him, but steps back gracefully when he declines. “Given your surprise arrival, we haven’t had much time to prepare it, but the bed is ready. Malina will be in soon to lit the chimney and—”

“There’s no need,” Jaskier says quickly. “I won’t be cold.”

“Very well.” The servant eyes him. “I’ll tell her to draw up a bath, then.”

Everybody is so careful not to mention how much he stinks. Must be that palace etiquette. “That’d be great.”

“If there’s anything you need, you only have to ask.”

He nods his head and makes to leave.

“Wait, sorry, I didn’t ask your name.”

“Tomek.” The man looks a little bemused at the extended hand, but shakes it. “Have a nice stay, master bard.”

“Thank you.” Jaskier almost introduces himself, but thinks better of it. “When can I see the prince?”

“That’s really up to him,” Tomek says, and leaves as swiftly as a royal servant can.

Jaskier takes in the room. It’s ridiculously big, but cozy. There are cobalt curtains, which is weird, he thought not using red was sacrilegious around these parts. The bed would fit two of him and another on the bottom. Judging by the flights of stairs, he's quite high up.

Nobody knows he is here. The palace is heavily guarded. There’s a lock on the door.

His knees buckle and he barely manages to dislodge his lute before it hits the floor. He holds it against his chest. It thuds against the wood.

Radovid's words echo in his mind as he tries to take in deep breaths. ‘Redania may not be perfect, but it’s her least bad option.’ 

Hard to know if that was just a charming lie. Now he’ll have to find out.

Chapter Text

A soft knock wakes Jaskier up. He almost calls out whoever is outside for coming at such an ungodly hour before squinting at the setting sun. Ugh, he fell asleep in the tub. The water’s tepid when he rises on shaky legs.

“Who is it?” He glances around for the clothes Malina left for him. Of course they’re needlessly courtly and complicated.

“It’s me.” Then, an unnecessary addendum. “Radovid.”

“Ah, shit.” On the other side of the door, there’s a noise that sounds like a chuckle. He reaches for the braies. “I’ll be—” Wait, he needs to dry first. He vigorously rubs the white cloth against his body. Suddenly, his pinkie hits the tub. “Fuck!”

“I can come back later?”

The idea that there’s a prince just standing out there in the hallway, probably slightly alarmed, definitely very amused, kept waiting by Jaskier tying up his pants, is so ridiculous that he almost laughs while precariously balancing his weight on one foot. “A moment.”

He’s never dressed so quickly without the motivator of a jealous significant other. But practice makes perfect and he opens the door a minute later.

Radovid looks up and blinks. Jaskier’s heart does a stupid little thing that he will reprimand it for later.

“Your Highness.”

“Jaskier.”

Although in the spare moments he has been pondering idly, it turns out Jaskier is no closer to figuring out the color of the prince’s eyes. They look blue today, but that might be the pretty azure doublet he’s donned.

Said eyes stop at his chest for a moment. Jaskier bites back the flirtatious remark that comes as naturally as breathing and moves. “Will you come in? I mean, it’s your room. Your brother’s room. Your family’s room. Well, don’t just stand there, basking in my eloquence.”

As the prince walks in, he sees the corner of his mouth twitching. Radovid is certainly better than this at hiding his amusement. Stupidly, Jaskier thinks it’s nice not being worth the effort.

“I would’ve liked to receive you myself, but I was busy.”

“You didn’t miss much,” Jaskier says. Radovid laughs through his nose when he adds, “I stunk.”

“Tomek told me you were here. He’s—”

“Your manservant, I know. We met.”

There’s a silence. Jaskier fiddles with the sleeve of his too fancy doublet as Radovid surveys the room. His gaze stops at the fireplace and the slightest frown appears on his forehead.

“I don’t need a fire,” Jaskier rushes to say. “I mean, Your Highness, it’s the middle of June. Who in their right mind—?”

He remembers then that, not two weeks past, Radovid himself had a fire in his chambers. Jaskier’s mouth snaps shut.

“The palace is built high and the winds are strong. Plus, this room hasn’t been used in a long time.” Radovid then adds, teasingly, “And I get cold.”

That would explain the furs. Jaskier is sweating just thinking about them. Luckily, Radovid is not wearing them at the moment. But he had them on last time. Jaskier doesn’t have to strain to remember the prince’s eyes helplessly fixed on him. He can ask. He doubts he’ll be rebuffed.

“I need to ask you for a favor,” Jaskier begins. The clearer, the better, and royals do love being owed.

“Name it.” He envies the simplicity of Radovid’s candor. Of course he’s ready and willing. It’s rare that a prince is asked for something he does not have in spades.

“I’m… Do you remember the mage I told you and Philippa about?”

“Rience,” Radovid says slowly.

Jaskier swallows. “That’s the one.”

His hand goes up to rub against his scar, as always, without his permission. And Radovid sees it, as he did in the carriage. Jaskier makes himself stop by pressing on it instead. It doesn’t hurt. It’s fine.

“You’ve seen him again?”

He doesn’t know if it makes him feel better or worse that Radovid has guessed.

“He’s after me,” he manages to say. “And I need… somewhere to stay. For a while. I’m not sure how long, only until Geralt returns, or until Rience… Which, I don’t know when that will be. If. Your side hasn’t had much luck getting rid of him, clearly. Not that I’m saying— I’m sure you’re doing every—”

“Jaskier.”

He shuts up and tries to seem even a smidge less desperate than he is.

“Of course you can stay. For however long you need.”

A wave of relief hits Jaskier, so strong his knees feel kind of weak again. Suddenly, Radovid is taking his arm. Jaskier blinks at him for a millisecond before realizing it’s to help him not fall. Before he knows it, he’s sitting on the floor, back to the bed.

“Should I get—?”

“No. No, there’s no need.”

Incongruously, the prince sits down next to him, hugging his knees.

“Thank you,” Jaskier manages to say. “For letting me stay.”

“You’re welcome.” Radovid then adds, probably trying for levity, “I’m sure you’ve noticed, this place has a lot of room. And I did invite you.”

“You might end up regretting that,” Jaskier tries to follow along. “I’ve been told my visits can drag on.”

“The most talented bard of the Continent is staying at my palace. Woe is me.”

Jaskier would like to laugh, but the words make his heart sink. “Your Highness… I can’t stay as court bard, or anything of the like. I realize complete secrecy is impossible, but if word got out too far or too fast that I am here…”

Radovid appears rueful. “No, of course. I didn’t think. Forgive me.” He licks his lips. Jaskier tries not to look. “Did you tell anyone your name?” When Jaskier shakes his head, he continues. “I was going to say perhaps you could use a fake one. But my guests from the other night all would certainly recognize you, and the castle gossip has traveled enough that most of the servants already know or suspect who you are.”

“Yeah.” Jaskier’s mouth is dry. “But this is still the safest place I could think of.”

“I’m honored.” After a moment, the prince’s hand comes to rest on his arm, so very briefly. He’s wearing a ring, a golden piece with a small blue stone. “The castle is heavily guarded, and Philippa has magical protections in place. I will let her know of your predicament. I’m sure she and Dijkstra can find him soon, and increase security in the meantime.”

Jaskier nods, swallows.

“Even if he were to find out where you are,” Radovid continues, “it would be a deterrent. If you’ll permit, it is one thing to go after an independent lone bard, and quite another to go after one under royal protection. He will not want to make an enemy of Redania.”

Jaskier wishes he could share his certainty.

“I realize I’m asking a boon in exchange for nothing. Your Highness—”

“Stop.” The frown is back. “We made a deal. ‘Tis no bother at all. And would you— Call me Radovid. If you’d like.”

“I think that’d end with me getting beheaded when the king heard.”

“When we’re alone, then.”

Despite the absence of a fire, there is the warmth of the same spark as last time. And despite everything, again, Jaskier wants to smile. He avoids Radovid’s gaze and nods once.

The prince gets up and, although there’s no need, smooths out his clothes. “Ah, I remember why I came. To ask if you’d come to dinner in the great hall.”

The flirtation comes out a little shaky, but there’s nothing like familiar ground to recover one’s step. “So you didn’t dress up for me?” Radovid chuckles, but Jaskier thinks he sees a light spot of red on his cheeks. “A royal dinner. With the nobles and the queen and the king and everyone gossiping and Philippa and Dijkstra glaring daggers at me?”

“I was sure you’d love the idea,” Radovid deadpans, which makes Jaskier huff a laugh. “But I had to ask. I’ll let the kitchen staff know you’ll be eating in your chambers for the foreseeable future.”

“I don’t mean to be an inconvenience.”

Radovid makes a dismissive gesture. “Anyway, if you’re not coming, I suppose you don’t have to fix… whatever interesting fashion choice that is.” Jaskier looks down. In his haste, he somehow managed to tie the doublet’s lacing cord with the tuning fork’s chain, and they are wonderfully knotted.

As he struggles to untangle the mess, Radovid starts to leave, then turns back, leaning on the door.

“I realize the circumstances aren’t ideal.” Jaskier would say that’s an understatement. Radovid’s shy smile keeps the words at bay. “But I am pleased you are here.”

Chapter Text

Jaskier wants to be discreet, he does, but he also wants to stay sane. And remaining cooped up in a room —although one that is the height of luxury— loses its appeal in a couple of days.

From his window he can stare wistfully at the flower-covered gardens. With all the brightness of the sun and little of its heat, they are at the peak of their beauty. They’re not the only ones. A circle of nobles is playing Pickety Witch and Radovid is at the center, blindfold on, arms outstretched. The courtiers coil around him like snakes around a hatchling. Maybe it’s an unkind comparison, but it reminds him of the night in the prince’s chambers, with everybody fawning over him. He is too far to tell if Radovid is enjoying it this time. In line with how tangled his thoughts about the man have been since then, Jaskier hopes he is and hopes he isn’t.

Several men skirt closer than they should until one is caught. Jaskier wonders if it’s all a game for them or if there is a hint of desire. Radovid’s fingertips trace the man’s face, trying to identify him, and Jaskier then wonders what they would feel like caressing his own before shaking himself.

He could go to the game and be welcomed, or take a turn around the gardens, but that still feels too exposed. He resists temptation and chooses to wander around the halls. On such a beautiful day, most of the inhabitants are out. It’s quiet, with only the servants’ chatter and the guards’ clinking armors breaking the silence. He tenses the first time they come round, but is ignored. Radovid must’ve spread word that he’s allowed to roam.

So he does. There must be several bedrooms on his floor, being that they are either guarded or locked. Down the stairs, he finds the library, a meeting room and a sitting room. He searches for the fastest route out of the castle.

As he familiarizes himself with the palace, he wonders where his family is. They’ve handled persecution well this past year. They’ll probably be alright. But he’d rather know. Then again, to know he’d have to go into town and get in touch with his contact in Tretogor.

There’s no reason to think that the network is unsafe. And yet he can’t bring himself to do it. He’s a coward, he thinks while staring at an intricate tapestry hanging from the wall. His best bet is hoping Radovid might hear something, collecting gossip from the servants, or…

“Finally out of your burrow.”

Jaskier has the thought, not for the first time, that if Dijkstra wasn’t a spymaster he should’ve been a tax inspector. He’d still be terrifying, but thanks to a few loopholes regarding the existence of Lettenhove, Jaskier wouldn’t have to deal with him.

“Sigismund!” He flashes his best smile. “It’s been too long. How ha—”

“Cut the bullshit,” Dijkstra says in the tone he saves for folks like him without an iota of royal blood. “You’re supposed to be out there, spending my money and helping the elves.”

Jaskier counts on his fingers. “Firstly, I’d say it’s the crown’s money. Secondly, I didn’t think you were so dedicated to the elven cause, especially considering their latest run-ins with Redania. So thirdly, what are you angry about?”

“Where’s the princess?”

“I don’t know.” He’s so happy it’s true.

“Have you convinced her yet to come?” Dijkstra’s voice drips with disdain. So, Philippa and Radovid were on board with Jaskier’s idea, but their colleague isn’t. Interesting.

“Who can convince a teenager to do anything? Sigismund, really, you must know this kind of work is subtle, slow…”

Dijkstra barks out a laugh. It’s honestly kind of unnerving. “Spare me. You’ve had months, and nothing. And now you’re here, putting your feet up on my tables—”

“The king’s tables. And you could’ve come see me if you missed me so much.”

“—Screwing the Crown Prince and doing fuck all. If you think you’re getting paid—”

“Woah, woah. Nobody’s screwing anybody, not that it’s any of your business. And, if you’d like to fire me, you need to provide me with a two-weeks’ notice. Are we not civilized?”

Instead of replying, Dijkstra glances at the tapestry, head tilted.

“The Battle of the Gustfields. About eighty years ago, there was a border dispute between the Garins and the Everecs. Minor thing, not unusual. Except the Garins had a guest, one of the younger brothers of the queen. Conversation turned to skirmish turned to a prince lying with his guts spilling out. Next thing you know, the Redanian army, led by Her Majesty herself, showed up to… make an example. The region has seen peace ever since.”

“You are a veritable source of knowledge, Sigismund.” His eyes are back to piercing Jaskier’s. “Although you might work on your tone as a narrator. One might think there is some kind of threat in there.”

“It is a kind of morality tale, is it not? You involve yourself with blue-bloods, you have to be aware of the risks. Not everybody is cut out for this kind of work. Some do so much better in dark corners and shit-covered alleys.”

He carefully plucks a piece of stray cottonwood from the tapestry and crushes it.

“Anyhow, I find myself in agreement with the queen. ‘Tis much better to nip a problem in the bud, but, failing that, tearing out the crop is the only solution.” Dijkstra is much closer now. “Or, better yet, torching it. And wheat does burn so well.”

Jaskier looks for a smart comeback, but they seem to have deserted him.

“I suggest you find a way to either get out of our hair, or start being useful, soon. Or it might become too much of a hassle to keep you.”

Jaskier stays there for a long time after Dijkstra leaves. In the middle of the wheat field, the two armies approach each other. One is much bigger, but all the knights engage in battle without fear. They’re brave, and foolish. Thread still burns.

It’s that very afternoon that Philippa corners him, and really, those two should space it out. He doesn’t think his heart can take it.

“Gods above, Philippa. Can’t you send a pigeon minion? Screech my name?”

She has never once laughed at his jokes. She does often smile in his presence, but that’s probably because she is picturing ways to disembowel him.

“You’re probably wondering, uh, why I’m here. I can explain—”

“Rience went after you, you ran with your tail between your legs. I’m aware.” Her dark eyes don’t give quarter. “I came to tell you I made some discoveries. I’m getting closer.”

“Oh, that’s gre—”

“So don’t get comfortable, bardling.” She draws nearer. Someone should really talk to her and her associate about personal space. “Right now, you are about as useful as a wart in my arse. I don’t like useless things, and I don’t suffer them for long.”

Definitely not a good idea to ask if she has warts down there. “You know, I basically already had this convo with Dijkstra,” he chirps, “so you can skip it if you want.”

“Important things bear reiterating,” Philippa says without blinking, and then she’s gone in a flurry of white linen.

The disagreeable conversations are probably over for today, unless King Vizimir or Queen Hedwig are planning to send him a summons. However, wandering has lost its shine. Jaskier walks back to his room. When he passes by a window, he sees the garden mostly deserted. The players have scattered, now in groups of three or two and dedicated to other activities in the growing shadows. He can’t spot Radovid among them. Maybe he took the pretty boy from before into the shrubbery. Jaskier ignores the pang of jealousy at the thought.

Something gives him pause when he enters his room. It has been cleaned and aired. The bed is made, the fireplace still unlit. He supposes it’s par for the course, but still feels a little weird about someone having come in while he was gone.

On the table, there is a tray of food and a vase full of flowers. It’s a wide array, a little eclectic: mayflowers, chamomiles, lavender, and pink camellias. In the middle, there’s a few buttercups. They’re freshly cut.

His face feels strange and he realizes it’s because he’s smiling like an idiot. There’s no note, there doesn’t need to be. He takes a deep breath and enjoys the sweet smell. Surrounded by it, even his thoughts seem less grim.

He’s dealt with Dijkstra and Eilhart for long enough that he knows when their threats are empty. Danger is not imminent, but they are not happy about having him there.

Problem is, Jaskier isn’t going anywhere until Rience is caught. He’ll have to find a way to convince them to have a little patience. And, he thinks brushing some petals with a finger, there’s really only one card up his sleeve.

Chapter Text

The door opens before Jaskier can knock. Tomek blinks, a basket full of laundry hanging from his arm.

“Sorry.” Jaskier lets him pass and ignores the look he’s given, and the one probably right after that, when he enters the prince’s room and closes the door.

It feels different by day, or perhaps it’s the absence of courtiers. There’s a few scribbled papers and a tiny plate full of pits and stems on the table. Jaskier wishes he had shown up early enough to see Radovid’s lips stained cherry red. He clears his throat.

“Your Highness.” The prince, fussing in front of the mirror, does not react. “Radovid?”

“Yes?” The way he so naturally turns and smiles, despite everything, makes Jaskier laugh. How wonderfully brattish! He’s dressed in a familiar red doublet and— Dear gods, he’s putting on the furs again.

Radovid sees his face and huffs. “I told you I get cold!”

“I didn’t say anything!”

“You didn’t need to.”

Distracted by his smile, Jaskier suddenly remembers what he’s doing here. “I came to thank you for the flowers. They’re lovely.”

“I’m glad you think so. I wanted you to enjoy them even if you didn’t come out.”

“So you don’t do that for all your guests?”

“Melitele, no. We’d run out of plants,” the prince hums as he begins donning his rings.

“That one’s pretty,” Jaskier says when Radovid picks up the one he noticed last time. It certainly is, although not particularly fancy. “Topaz?”

“Aquamarine. Did you need something?”

“Um… Do I catch you at a bad time?”

“A little, I must admit. My brother has summoned me.”

“Important matters of state?”

Radovid smiles. “Hardly. A game of metalball.”

“Of what?”

“Two players attempt to throw a metallic ball through the rival’s arch.” Radovid closes the jewelry box. “Vizimir invented it himself. I imagine it’s not very popular outside of the palace.”

“Sounds fun?”

“If you’re my brother, it is,” Radovid says placidly.

“Because he always wins?”

“Because nobody dares throw a metal ball at him.”

“I figure.”

“But he has no such qualms. So beware.”

“What if he asked me to play?”

Radovid bats his eyelashes at him. “I would beg him to spare you.”

“My prince is too kind,” Jaskier teases. “And too smart to risk playing, so why exactly does he want you there?”

“Why, to clap and cheer.” He doesn’t imagine the way Radovid’s smile dulls a little. “Those are my talents.”

“If I could have you doing that for me, I would also hire you,” Jaskier says, both because he wants it to brighten and because it’s not a lie.

“In your case, I would do it for free.”

“Speaking of,” Jaskier replies, “I also came to say, well. I said I wouldn’t perform at court and I stand by it, but… I did wonder if you might… That is, I could play for you. If you’d like. Or write something for you, if you’d prefer.”

Radovid is quiet for a moment. “Just for me?”

The heat between them is there again. And it’s reckless and it’s stupid, but Jaskier has never been good at restraint. “Just for you.”

This smile is bright, albeit shy. “I would like that.”

Jaskier jerkily nods. “Right, well. You say when. It’s the least I can do in exchange for bed and breakfast.”

Radovid’s expression shifts. “I wouldn’t want you to do it because you feel obliged to.”

“Well, you are the prince.” Jaskier was trying to joke, but he realizes right away that was the wrong thing to say. Radovid’s face falls further. Then, even worse, it turns the perfectly pleasant, blank mask he’s seen him wear before.

“Right. It’s a very kind offer. Now, if you’ll excuse me.”

Jaskier exits after him, watches him disappear down the stairs. It’s been a while since he’s put his foot in his mouth, he was almost beginning to miss its taste.

He definitely hasn’t been roaming the castle for the past half an hour or so, keeping a keen ear for the prince’s return.

As he spots him, Jaskier glances around, but there’s nobody else.

“Radovid.”

Radovid’s sober expression perks up. From somewhere —Where was he keeping it? Does he just have loose fruit in his pockets? Does he even have pockets?—, he throws an apple at Jaskier, who doesn’t at all fumble.

“Hungry?”

“I could eat. How was metalball?”

“My brother won.”

“Good thing I bet on him.”

That earns him the chuckle he hoped. “What did you win?”

“A moment with you.”

Radovid’s mouth twitches. “Well, I think you’ve been swindled.”

“Next time, I’ll be shrewder. May I walk with you?”

“If that is your prize.” Radovid gives him a look that reminds him why he should cut back on the flirting.

They fall into a brief silence. The sunlight is still intense, it bathes the prince in gold and makes Jaskier blink like an idiot.

“I should apologize,” Radovid says before he can. “For earlier. My manner was churlish.”

The tip of his finger follows the junctures between the stones, only leaping when it encounters a window.

“I… The truth is…” He bites his lip delicately and it’s unfairly hard how much Jaskier has to focus to avoid picturing himself doing that. “Since you were here for the first time, I’ve been…”

Two ladies turn the corner, deep in conversation. They make gracious bows and leave, albeit not before eyeing Jaskier curiously.

“I’ve been thinking about you.”

The apple is firm. When Jaskier bites into it, to give himself some time and a poor man’s substitute for pink lips, a burst of sweetness fills his mouth. Radovid watches, looks away when he swallows. Ah. Jaskier certainly isn’t alone in his thoughts, then.

“When you played, when you sang… I had been waiting a lifetime to hear that. I hope you know how special it was to me.”

Jaskier swallows again. There is a candidness to Radovid’s voice that feels almost like he shouldn’t be hearing it, even though the words are for him.

“Thank you,” he manages to say. “To me… I…”

Radovid shakes his head. “You don’t have to.” There’s a smile on his lips. Jaskier isn’t imagining that it looks sad. “Of course it would not feel the same to you. You must have performed so many times, for hundreds of admirers. I imagine it was just like any other evening.”

He’s not wrong. And yet… as much as Jaskier’s been trying to resist it, something did happen in Radovid’s chambers. To both of them. His thoughts are swirling with the memory of it.

He can feel Radovid’s warmth through the barest brush of their shoulders. He wants, so badly, to give in to it. But this is even more complicated than usual. And the fallout if Jaskier fucks this up —which he will— would not just consist on his handful of belongings being thrown off a balcony. Fuck, he wishes he could talk to someone about this. Irony of ironies, Vespula pops up in his head. Would she terribly mind a palace summons?

“I don’t know what to say. I am in a difficult situation, Radovid.”

Radovid stops at that. “I didn’t… Of course. This wasn’t—”

A guard on patrol approaches. He bows his head as he leaves them behind.

“Hard to have a private conversation around here,” Jaskier half-jokes.

“Almost impossible.” Radovid looks down. “I hope you know you can still stay here. Without… expectations.”

The contrary hadn’t even occurred to Jaskier. That’s a sign he’s too close to this. Which is bad, he has to remind himself.

“Thank you.” He can’t stand to see Radovid look so… something between scolded and rejected. “And, ah, there’s no need to apologize. Earlier, I came to see you because, well. I had a… meeting with Dijkstra and Eilhart, and they strongly suggested I get back to work. Or get the hell out.”

“Of course they would find out you’re here.” Radovid frowns. “And they can’t tell you to leave. Who do they think they are?”

There’s a tone to his voice that Jaskier can only describe as haughty. He shifts his weight from one foot to the other. He really doesn’t want to get stuck in the middle of a courtly power struggle.

“You’re my guest,” Radovid continues. “I will make that clear to them.”

Well, that’s not going to disabuse Dijkstra of his suspicions regarding Jaskier warming the prince’s bed. “I’d prefer not to be at odds with them. They are still kinda sorta my employers, after all. And dangerous.”

There’s something like gentle pity in Radovid’s eyes, like a grown-up explaining to a child that there are no monsters in the closet. “To Redania’s enemies, yes. Which you are not.”

“I’d still rather be on the safe side.”

“Very well. But I will have to remind them of the deal struck with you concerning Rience. They catch him, you go back to work. Does that satisfy?”

“Me, yes.”

Hesitatingly, Radovid’s hand rises to touch his elbow.

“You’re not going out there while that maniac is roaming free.”

Jaskier isn’t about to object. And he believes Radovid. Or wants to, at least. Those two things are beginning to merge in his mind, another thing to scold himself about. Later.

When they reach the corner that leads to Jaskier’s room, Radovid hesitates.

“If I asked you to meet me after dusk, would you?” Jaskier’s twitchy eyebrow makes him stammer and add, cheeks reddening, “With no ulterior motive.”

“Where?” Jaskier’s mouth asks before he can discipline it.

“The Eastern Hall. There’s a painting of—”

“Diana de Saint-Villiers,” Jaskier finishes. “I’ve seen the likeness. Your mother?”

Radovid nods. “Will you come?”

Jaskier knows what the right answer is. He also knows he’s not going to pick it.

There’s still light out when Jaskier leaves his bedroom. A couple of courtiers rush by, late for supper. Whatever Radovid wants, he wishes to avoid an audience. Jaskier tries not to let a tingle run through him at the thought.

He spots the portrait up ahead and tries to ignore its piercing gaze. Yes, I’m meeting your son, Crown Prince of the realm, unchaperoned and in secret. Nothing untoward, ma’am. That is, Your Majesty. It’s a bit hard not to feel he’s doing something wrong. But then, he’s used to that, especially in such lofty lodgings. Usually, if he’s roaming noble halls after sunset, he’s got a specific naughty destination. In fact—

Jaskier doesn’t yelp when a hand reaches out and grabs him. A lifetime of nights on the road and performances in seedy taverns has him fluidly reach for the knife he keeps concealed and, when he’s taken into a corner, he goes. The blade is against Radovid’s throat before either of them realize.

Radovid makes a little noise. “Shit,” Jaskier mutters, and puts the weapon back in his doublet. “Sorry. But maybe you shouldn’t have done that.”

“Sorry,” Radovid echoes, a little breathlessly. “But I need to speak to you.”

The warm little exhales of his words hit Jaskier’s face. “In a dark corner?”

Radovid worries at his lip. Jaskier makes an effort not to stare, and the next sentence make it easier.

“Vizimir met with some Nilfgaardian envoys. They want to make a deal with him, to spare Redania when the emperor takes the North—”

“What the—”

“—On the condition that Vizimir give them Cirilla.”

“—Fuck.”

For a moment, they just stare at each other.

“How long have you known—”

“I knew about the meeting, not that they had—”

They both stop.

“I just found out during the game,” Radovid says. “Vizimir bragged about it.”

“Of course he did, that fucking—”

“It wasn’t even his idea. It was Hedwig’s.” As if Jaskier needed another reason to dislike that toad, when her regard for Valdo Marx is well-known, mostly because the troubadour himself can’t stop publicizing it. “They both just went to another meeting.”

“Oh, gods. Nilfgaard is here?”

“Jaskier, it’s never going to happen. Philippa and Dijkstra are dead set against the deal. And, eventually, my brother will take their advice.”

Jaskier shakes his head. “You don’t know that.”

“He always does. That’s exactly why I told Dijkstra about the first meeting. The sooner he knows, the sooner he can start working against it. When—”

Jaskier shuts him up when the humdrum noise of the patrol reaches his ears. They stay silent as the guards pass by, not even glancing towards them. Suddenly, Jaskier is very conscious of his hand over Radovid’s mouth. He withdraws it slowly.

“So why are you telling me?”

Radovid glances away. “I thought you should know.”

Jaskier is feeling some type of way that he doesn’t care to analyze at the moment. “Right. Well. Thanks.”

“Cirilla will be safe here,” Radovid insists. “Just give us more time.”

Of course, he doesn’t know that Geralt was already against the idea of Ciri coming to Redania. Jaskier doubts he could’ve convinced him before —this new information just made it impossible. Something like disappointment settles in his gut.

“Not up to me right now,” he says, unwilling to tell him that but not wanting to lie, and walks away.

Honestly, one could say it’s… charming how dedicated Radovid is to the idea, and flattering that it’s mostly because of Jaskier. He can almost picture what Radovid surely imagines, and he aches. Ciri, safe and happy with her parents; himself, playing the lute; all of them somehow freed from their enemies. Radovid gazing adoringly at him, Redania and Cintra united, everybody safe and content.

A shame that it’s too good to be true.

Chapter Text

Rience is here. Jaskier is on his feet before he hears the snap, and out the door before his eyes can find the flickering flame. The hallway is almost pitch black, but thanks to the feeble moonlight, he doesn’t fall down the staircase. He merely stumbles, and it’s only then that he realizes there is nobody following him, no magical fire approaching in the dark.

Heart thumping, he holds onto the banister as he sinks to the ground. It still takes a few minutes of vigilance to convince himself it was a nightmare. The castle is quiet, not even the whistling of the wind disturbs it. The stone floor feels pleasantly cold. He presses his head against the wall until it stops pounding.

He rises on shaky legs. It’s like a gaping cavern, the darkness of the hallway. His feet refuse to take him back to his room, and he’s not too keen to argue.

In the distance, a faint clinking signals the impending presence of the guard. Jaskier doesn’t want to be found here. As silently as he can, he walks down the stairs. He thanks Melitele for his good memory when he counts the doors and opens the one that he knows leads to the library.

The sight of the flame is enough to make his knees buckle. He’s distantly aware of his hand trying to find the wall for support, then, of Radovid standing in front of him.

“Are you alright?” He sounds alarmed. Jaskier mouths something, but he doesn’t think any words come out.

Radovid leads him to the armchair, then makes to move. Jaskier stops him.

“I’ll get the physician.”

“No.” Radovid does stop, but his frown reveals he’s about to argue. “I’m fine.”

“You don’t look fine.”

“I just…” Jaskier’s eyes drift towards the candle on their own volition. “I had a nightmare.”

Radovid follows his gaze. He approaches the candle, hesitates, then takes it to the farthest corner of the room. When he returns and once again kneels in front of the armchair, his robe pools on the floor, which makes Jaskier realize how wrong this is.

“Sorry, this was your seat…”

“Stay put.” Radovid, for the first time, uses the royal commanding tone, somehow not at odds with his sleeping clothes and loosely braided hair. “Are you sure you don’t want the doctor?”

He looks displeased when Jaskier says, “Yes. No. That is, I’m sure. The doctor wouldn’t help much.”

“They could give you something for the nightmares, at least.”

“Those potions make one sleep like the dead,” Jaskier says. He doesn’t add that he needs to be able to wake up in case… In case. “I just need to clear my head for a bit.”

Radovid still looks like he wants to argue, so Jaskier has to distract him. He clears his throat. “What were you reading?”

He glances at the table, but before he can catch a glimpse, Radovid moves with surprising quickness and half-sits on the table, hiding the book from view. “Ah, nothing.”

The bashfulness of it tears a chuckle out of Jaskier. “You’re the prince, you know. Unless your light reading includes How to Commit Regicide by King Stabber, I think I haven’t the right to judge you.”

Radovid smiles, but still doesn’t show him or answer. “Would you, uh, want to grab something? You’re welcome to.”

“Sure.” Jaskier manages to trust his feet to support him. “Don’t know what.”

Face lighting up, Radovid rises too —taking his book with him— and begins explaining, shelf by shelf. Jaskier’s focus leaves much to be desired, but it’s interesting, and he won’t complain about the pleasant lull of Radovid’s voice either.

“…Including a signed edition that the author gifted my grandmother. And those in the back are the chronicles. I recommend Gerondale’s History of the Cart if you’re looking to sleep.”

Jaskier makes a beeline for the music and poetry section. By happenstance, he finds a worn The Blue Pearl. He tears his eyes away before he can read Essi’s name, and they stumble upon a gap. There’s Nine Days of Loneliness by Lady Jane on one side, leaning against it is Jaworowski’s compilation of ballads…

“I’m not very adept at modesty,” Jaskier says, “but would I err in assuming my book is here?”

“Perhaps. What is it called?” Radovid’s innocent air almost works, even if the evidence is staring Jaskier in the face.

“The Adversities of Loving.”

“Indeed, I believe it’s part of the collection.”

“Right. I think someone has taken it out.”

Radovid says slowly, “Someone has,” and Jaskier can’t help but laugh.

“That’s all I wanted to know.” He grabs Jaworowski’s volume, not in the mood for melancholy, but all mirth vanishes as he swiftly realizes something. He doesn’t want to return to his room until it’s light. Gods, he feels like a child even thinking that, but it’s true. He tries not to dig his nails in the very old volume. “Do you mind if I stay here?”

“I’ll leave you to your thoughts.” Radovid seems to realize something. “You didn’t bring a candle.”

“No, I— I didn’t think I needed it with the moon tonight.” It’s a shitty lie, but Radovid lets him have it.

“Well, you might not have,” Radovid says, “but it’s darker now. I think it has gotten cloudy.”

“Right. Yeah.” Jaskier swallows. “I mean, I could walk you to your room, and then come back.”

Radovid recovers the candle. He holds it with his right hand, as far from Jaskier as possible, as they walk down the shadowy hallway.

“Well, this is me.” It’s the moment Radovid stops in front of his door that Jaskier realizes he doesn’t want to go back alone, either. He stands there like an idiot. Radovid isn’t doing much better, probably trying to work out how to give Jaskier the candle without freaking him out or ending the impromptu rendezvous with a bard lying in the dark with a broken neck.

“You could come in,” Radovid hesitatingly says. “To read.”

More eagerly than he’d like to admit, Jaskier nods, and then he’s back in Radovid’s rooms, again in a completely different light. The wood is still burning in the fireplace. Before he can say Don’t, you’ll get cold, Radovid moves to put the fire out. Then he takes the candle to his bedside table.

Jaskier will blame it on the helpless fear of solitude or the debilitating relief. Either way, the words come out, reedy and plaintive. “Why are you doing this?”

Radovid stares at him uncertainly.

“You’re not meant to…” Jaskier makes a vague gesture. “You’re supposed to be on one side, and I’m on the other. And I know that part of the job is pretending and playing nice and— But you’re too good at it. Okay? So I’d appreciate it if you just— stopped. Stop it.”

That’s as much as he feels able to say, which is unfortunate, because Radovid murmurs, “I don’t know what you want from me.”

“Me neither.” Jaskier suddenly feels very tired. He sinks down on an armchair and it welcomes him. The book hangs from his limp hand. His eyes hurt, but they flit about. He remembers that tapestry. There are some wood carvings in that other wall, but their faces contort mockingly in the shadows. He closes his eyes tightly, opens them again.

Radovid stands there for a few moments, fiddling with his own book. He leaves it on the bedside table, then walks up to Jaskier, who’s half-expecting to be thrown out. Radovid plucks Jaworowski’s book from his grip, goes to settle on his bed and opens it.

“‘The following is a compilation of the most relevant ballads of the latter half of the 12^th century. The compositions have been judged by style, storytelling, rhyme, musicality and cultural impact…’”

He really does have a lovely voice, Jaskier thinks as Radovid recites lines about a lady going to rescue her beloved, about to be executed. He idly wonders if Radovid can sing. Princely education must cover that, surely? He can ask tomorrow. The armchair really is comfortable.

Chapter Text

Jaskier blinks awake with the feeling he’s not where he should. Granted, that’s usual for someone who goes from inn to bedroll to nook. The plush cushions make it an outlier even then.

He must’ve dozed off at some point after Kate the Ruby's The Lark. Somehow, it sounded even more melancholic in Radovid's soft voice. A blanket that definitely wasn’t there before is covering him. The bed is empty.

Something cold fills his stomach when he remembers last night. Gods, what a fucking mess. He’s not sure what was worse, the pathetic scene in the library or his vaguely accusatory ramblings right before falling asleep in the prince’s rooms. He puts his face in his hands and groans.

“Good morning,” Radovid murmurs. When Jaskier looks up, he’s drying his face with a cloth. “Did I wake you?”

Unclear how, as he could probably scream from the opposite side of the huge apartments and Jaskier wouldn’t hear. “Hnnnmn,” he mumbles, rubbing his eyes to hide his face.

Radovid opens the curtains and light floods the room. His braid is messy and half undone by sleep. Jaskier tries not to picture sinking his fingers in it, pulling gently but firmly. Then he fights the urge to slap himself out of… everything.

“Listen,” he starts, already wincing, “about last night… Look, I don’t even know why I said it. It was stupid.”

Radovid is quiet for a moment. “No, I don’t think it was. I can’t say I’ve ever been in your situation, but I cannot imagine it would make me very keen to trust.”

“I…”

“And you were right,” Radovid goes on. “Whether I like it or not, you have your side and I have mine. I have put you in an uncomfortable position. So it probably would be better for us to keep our distance while you’re at court.”

The words are so toneless that they must hide a feeling. Whatever it is, Jaskier cannot tell, and that bothers him.

“That’s…” He closes his eyes. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to offend you, or be hurtful. It’s just been… a lot.”

Radovid nods. He turns like the conversation is over, but Jaskier continues, getting to his feet.

“I’m not very good company lately, even to myself. And don’t think— If anything, I’ve put myself in this position. And I keep doing so. And… it’s unfair to blame you for meeting me with unsettling kindness every time.”

Radovid looks dismayed. “I never meant to unsettle you.”

“I think you would even if you didn’t mean to.” Step a little unsteady, Jaskier walks up to him.

Radovid’s gaze wavers. “I’m not pretending,” he murmurs. Jaskier feels it like the immense confession it is and his own follows like breathing.

“I’m not playing nice.” He chuckles. “Of course, you know that, this would be far too messy an act.”

Radovid glances up. There’s a smile. “So what do we do?”

Fuck it. Jaskier feels undone yet sturdy. His hand cups Radovid’s cheek and he watches as his eyes flutter.

A knock startles them both.

“My prince?”

Jaskier’s hand falls. Radovid, still looking at him, seems to catch himself and moves to the door.

Jaskier sneaks into the washroom in time. He does not rush as he relieves himself and washes and, by the time he comes out, Radovid is once again alone and a tray has been brought in.

Tomek’s appearance seems to have reset things to normal, probably for the best. The prince smiles and gestures for him to sit back in the armchair, now closer to the table.

“Your neck must be killing you. I've slept there enough times to know.” He leans on the bedpost before adding, “I'd offer a massage, but as I am your bitter enemy, you'd think I was planning to strangle you, so I won't even dare mention it out loud.”

Appropriately enough, Jaskier almost chokes on air, but by the time he looks at Radovid, he's averted his gaze. “Yeah,” he manages, “better keep that to yourself.”

“So,” the prince says pleasantly, “breakfast?”

He uncovers the tray with a theatricality Jaskier appreciates, unveiling a little feast.

“As I thought you might feel uncomfortable if anyone learned you slept here, I could not order for both of us.” This is all for one person? Jaskier wonders if there’s someone in the kitchen hellbent on making Radovid eat more. Considering his scrawny frame, he can’t say he disagrees with the impulse. “So I’m afraid there is only one cup.”

After filling it to the brink, he hands it to Jaskier while he keeps the jug. “Good call,” Jaskier mumbles before taking a sip. The milk is too hot for his liking, but fresh. Radovid is, of course, warming his hands on the porcelain.

Jaskier breaks the bread and offers him half. He’s halfway through grabbing a doughnut before he remembers Ciri isn’t nearby and it probably would look rude to pocket an entire pastry or three. He’s fairly sure he could ask a servant for a snack any time, but old habits die hard.

A plate full of dark orange slices catches his eye. Jaskier hasn't had quince jelly since he left his parents' roof and, in the ocean of day-old bread and bitter beer that he is accustomed to, it’s almost too sweet. He eats the piece in two bites and licks his fingers.

When he opens his eyes, Radovid is staring at him intently, mouth hidden behind his hand. Without a word, the prince pushes the plate towards him.

“Well, if you are not going to appreciate it,” Jaskier mumbles before devouring it all with zero regret.

Radovid chuckles and wraps his long fingers around the steaming jug again. “Never liked it much, no.”

Jaskier licks the last remains of the jelly on his finger slowly. A smile blooms on his face. “So… you requested it for me.”

It is not quite a question, not quite an accusation. Radovid sits up a little straighter and takes a sip. Jaskier fancies he can see a tiny spot of color on his cheeks. “Merely wanted you to see what you could have in Redania.”

Jaskier hides a smile with his hand. “I am beginning to.”

Breakfast is quiet. Either Radovid is not much of a morning person either, or he’s not the kind to fill the air with idle chatter. One way or the other, it’s pleasant. And a little surreal. Jaskier is no stranger to lovers who are higher than himself— Not that Radovid is a lover, but well, Jaskier did sleep over, if in a completely platonic, surprisingly casual way. Maybe that’s the strangest part. He wonders if anyone believes they aren’t fucking. Dijkstra clearly doesn’t. Geralt and Yen certainly wouldn’t.

Jaskier has time to observe Radovid. He favors the honey pastry, it’s the only thing he eats more than one of. He doesn’t taste the ale. His hair is messy and he has not changed into his clothes for the day, although he is wearing his aquamarine ring. Maybe he sleeps with it —it wouldn’t be that strange, Jaskier himself never takes off his own rings, or his tuning fork—, or forgot to take it off after Jaskier disrupted his entire night.

Jaskier sits back with a sigh, belly fuller than he can remember it being in years. I could get used to this crosses his mind, alarmingly. Away with you, inconvenient thought. It’s just his satisfied appetite talking.

“I don’t think I can get up.”

“You needn’t.”

Jaskier tilts his head. “What will Tomek think when he comes to dress you and finds me here in my sleeping clothes?”

“Ah. Well.” Radovid plays with his napkin. “Unfortunately, he’ll believe what a fair amount of people already do around here.”

“Dijkstra mentioned.” Jaskier clears his throat. “I was happy to pretend it was exclusively his delusion. But I suppose it’s not that strange, given my reputation. And people must wonder what the hell I do all day.”

“You’re not the only one with a reputation. And people might mind their godsdamned business for once.”

There’s a bitter note in there. Jaskier doesn’t know how to address it, or if he should.

“This was nice,” he says simply, and Radovid smiles.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah, you can invite me over for breakfast any time.”

He doesn’t get to hear what Radovid’s reply would’ve been. Somewhere beyond the door, there is a scream and a crash.

Radovid gets to his feet. Jaskier’s seem to be fixed to the floor.

Jaskier looks up at him. He wants to run, but his legs don’t respond. There’s more yelling, closer.

In a blink, Radovid has made him rise. “Come with me,” he says, as if Jaskier can do anything other than follow. He takes him next to the delicate wood carvings. Jaskier opens his mouth, not knowing what he means to say.

Before he can speak, Radovid pokes the eye of the figure to the left, a queen of old, it looks like. Probably quite cross, she begins to grumble. It takes a moment for Jaskier’s sense to come back, and he realizes the wall next to her is moving.

“Get in.” Reason may be back, but movement resists. Radovid basically has to shove him in. He gazes back at his rooms attentively. Seemingly satisfied, he turns back to Jaskier.

“It doesn’t lead anywhere,” Radovid murmurs. “But it’s a good hiding place. You will stay here until I come to collect you. Yes?”

It dawns on Jaskier, then, what Radovid intends. He shakes his head. “No, you—”

“No room for two,” Radovid says, and closes the panel in his face.

Jaskier is panting like he ran a mile. It’s not fully dark, he notices, there are two weak beams of light piercing the shadows.

He doesn’t want to look. He does.

He’s expecting to see an empty room. But Radovid is half-lying on the armchair, hand over his face, hair falling in messy waves. The curtains are once again drawn.

The light breaks in, however, when a roaring flame burns the door down.

Chapter Text

Jaskier’s body feels like a rusty key in a lock. It if did not, he would’ve jumped hard enough to hit his head.

The flames die down. Rience walks in. Jaskier lets out a whimper without meaning to, and it seems to echo.

“Can you all quiet down?” Radovid whines. “By Melitele, what’s that racket at this hour?”

Jaskier isn’t sure who’s more taken aback, himself or Rience. The latter recovers faster, however, and advances like a panther.

“Do excuse me. Am I disturbing you?”

The prince finally glances at him, then away. “Oh, gods, cover that light. Who are you supposed to be, the new butler? You should be reporting to my brother, the king.”

Rience smiles. In a second, he’s gripping the arms of the chair, face level with Radovid’s.

“Where is he?”

“I expect he’s in the throne room, attending petitioners.”

“Not the king,” Rience amicably tuts, like they’re playing a game.

“Who then?”

“You know who.”

Jaskier’s heart is so loud it’s a wonder no one can hear it thumping against the stone. Radovid rolls his eyes. “I am much too weary for riddles and strange fellows. There’s the door, well, was, I suppose. If you don’t mind—”

Rience moves so quick. Jaskier knows he can, and yet he’s startled. Radovid too. The mage’s hand grips the prince’s left arm like a manacle.

“I’ll ask only once again.” The flames by the door, which Jaskier thought snuffed out, intensify, lick at the walls. “Where is the bard?”

Not even the hungover idiot Radovid is pretending to be can remain calm before this. Jaskier sees his chest heave, his mouth pant.

“I’ll say it once again,” Radovid says, “I don’t know who—”

His own scream interrupts him. The flames engulf Rience’s hand, and with it, Radovid’s arm. Jaskier’s fingers move erratically, trying to find the mechanism to open the passage from inside, there must be one, there has to be. The smell of smoke mixes with that of burnt flesh and nobody is coming Jaskier is alone in this fucking basement he can’t tell Rience anything and he’s never going to be—

Head full of noise, he doesn’t register when Radovid’s screams stop and Rience’s start. Jaskier blinks and he’s back inside the wall, watching a white owl fly, claws seconds away from sinking into Rience’s eyes. He blinks again and now there’s a woman with outstretched arms, a red curtain wrapping itself around Rience’s throat. His face is bloody. Before she can break his neck, a portal appears behind him and he falls into it.

Too late, as he always is, Jaskier finds a button. The whirr of the stone is loud. Or it might be that everything else is silent. Philippa douses the flames, blows out the smoke.

A red blur rushes by as Jaskier stumbles in on unsteady feet. Radovid is still on the armchair, head lolling to the side. He must’ve fainted. It has to be that. Pale as death, Tomek kneels by him and presses two fingers to his neck, then is chased off by Philippa. She barks at him to get the healer and gently takes Radovid’s arm.

Jaskier heaves at the sight. He has time to find a corner and vomit there. When he’s done, he forces himself to turn back. Under Philippa’s guidance, the skin is joining back together into a smooth, unblemished expanse.

Her eyes pierce his. “Do something useful for once and watch him,” she snaps, and then she opens her own portal and vanishes.

“Radovid?” The wound is gone, but the smell still floats around. Jaskier’s knees hit the floor. “Radovid, can you hear me?”

He doesn’t stir until the healer arrives with an anxious Tomek in tow. Jaskier tries to listen, he does, but all his attention is on the rise and fall of Radovid’s chest.

“…move him,” Tomek’s voice breaks through, “to the bed. I’ll get—”

“I’ll do it,” Jaskier hears himself say. Tomek gives him a look that must be merited. Jaskier wills his body to stop shaking and his legs to strengthen. He’s gone. It’s over. He doesn’t let himself think For now as he lifts Radovid from his seat, being very careful not to touch his left arm.

Radovid lets out a whimper. His eyes flutter open again. “Jaskier?”

“I’m here.” He deposits him on the bed.

“Are you okay?” Radovid asks, then blinks as a tear falls on his nose. Jaskier steps back, covers his face before any more fall. He’s not the one who almost died, he furiously tells himself.

“Are you okay?” Tomek gives voice to the only question that should be asked, face still white.

Radovid hums, “I think so.” He sounds a bit out of it. Jaskier wonders if the healer gave him something and he missed it. When Radovid moves his left arm, an alarmed shout gets stuck in Jaskier’s throat. Radovid looks confused.

“It’s okay,” he says, “it doesn’t hurt.”

Jaskier should get up and go. To his rooms, or better yet, out of this fucking castle. He can only find the energy to curl up by Radovid’s hip, face leaving a wet patch on the sheets. Radovid’s fingers come to brush his hair while the prince mutters reassuring nothings.

“Jaskier.” His name, sweet but urgent, brings him out of whatever state he was in, somewhere between stupor and alertness. “My brother is coming. It’s best if he doesn’t find you here.”

Bleary-eyed, Jaskier gets up. He has no idea how much time has passed. “Here.” Tomek puts something on the bed. “I brought you some clothes. Be quick and follow me.”

Jaskier obeys like an automaton, only glancing at Radovid once, mind completely blank. When he crosses the threshold, a shiver runs through him.

“Come.” Tomek leads him away just in time, the king’s screeching audible on the stairs. Jaskier refuses to look back as the servant takes him back to his rooms.

His eyes fall on the vase when he enters. The flowers are a bit wilted, but still hale enough. Of course they are. It’s only been two days since they were picked.

“Best if you stay here until…”

The servant trails off, turns to leave.

“Will you…” Tomek turns back. “Will you come and tell me how Radovid is?”

Something crosses the man’s face before it’s schooled back to neutrality. He leaves without answering.

Jaskier is still carrying the bundle of his sleeping clothes. Luckily, for it stifles his sobs quite well.

Chapter Text

It’s not Tomek who opens the door. Jaskier had already been dubious about this, but seeing Radovid there, rubbing his eyes, almost sends him running.

“Jaskier,” he sounds surprised.

Tomek didn’t come by and I had to see you or Are you alright are some things Jaskier could, should say. “I just came to tell you I’m leaving.”

Radovid frowns, opens his mouth, closes it. Jaskier can only imagine what he would say were they alone. But two guards are posted by the door, and four more in the hall. Vizimir is clearly learning from his mistakes.

“Won’t you come in?” Radovid asks.

Upon arriving, Jaskier spotted the subtle golden glow around the door. He’s seen something similar before, on a rare occasion where he, Geralt and Yen were all at the same inn —two rooms— and the witch was disinclined to be interrupted by Jaskier. He recalls being pushed back by an invisible force when he tried to enter, while Geralt eventually left unharmed. Good, he thinks. Philippa should leave that indefinitely.

He shakes his head. “I can’t. That magic shield thing…”

He trails off when Radovid holds out a hand. Jaskier has the perfect excuse and he’s said his piece, but he takes it. Radovid pulls him inside slowly, and the spell doesn’t repel Jaskier.

The door closes. They stare at each other. Jaskier lets go of his hand.

Jaskier’s eyes travel down his arm —uselessly, it’s covered. He imagines Tomek must have disposed of the burnt clothes.

“I thought you might have left already,” Radovid admits. His other hand comes to brush against the sleeve, and Jaskier forgets what he came here to say.

“What the fuck where you thinking?” Radovid barely has time to react before Jaskier gets in his face. “What the fuck were you doing?”

“Jaskier—”

“I thought you would go get help! I didn’t think you’d just— sit there and pretend to be an idiot! Then again, maybe you are one!”

“I—”

“Listen, Your Highness, when someone like Rience comes after you, you run. Or hide. Why would you—”

“He wanted to kill you!” Radovid manages to cut through his reproach. “Was I supposed to hand you over on a silver platter?”

“So you serve yourself instead!?”

“It’s not like I had a lot of options!”

“Your Highness!” Heavy knocking on the door. “Are you alright?”

“Fine! We’re having a godsdamned conversation!”

The guard doesn’t add anything else. Radovid curses under his breath. Jaskier is panting. “Sorry… I’m sorry.” He manages to swallow. “Your arm…”

“Is fine,” Radovid replies, although he still looks pale. “It’s healed. Philippa acted quickly. I don’t even have a scar.”

“Why didn’t you run? Why—?”

“I knew the guards would come, and most crucially, Philippa too.” The words are logical, the tone, a bit breathless. “With all the ruckus Rience was making, there was no chance he could remain here longer than a couple of minutes.”

Jaskier feels like his entire body is on fire. “You have no idea what he can do in a couple of minutes.”

“I do now.” Radovid blanches even more, and guilt hits Jaskier like a mace. He reaches out, only to back off almost immediately. His own hand is burning, and he shouldn’t do this in front of Radovid, but he can’t help it, he rubs the scar but that’s not enough, his nails dig in until it hurts—

“Stop it!” Radovid grabs his hands, tries to hold Jaskier’s gaze, but he won’t meet it. “Stop. I’m fine.”

“Save it,” Jaskier snaps. “I know you’re lying.”

Radovid lets him go only to pull up his sleeve.

“Look.” When Jaskier doesn’t, Radovid takes his hand, makes him touch. The skin on his arm is soft and hale.

“Doesn’t matter if you are marred or not,” Jaskier whimpers, but he can’t help himself and keeps touching, and when his hands are not enough he presses kisses to it, Radovid’s arm, his shoulder. Radovid breathes out shakily, and before Jaskier knows it, their mouths are joined in a feverish frenzy.

He should pull back earlier than he does. “I’m sorry,” he pants against Radovid’s lips.

“Jaskier,” Radovid whispers, “don’t leave.”

“I have to.” He presses his hands against his eyes until he’s sure he will see stars when they open. “I have to.”

“I’ll have Philippa put a shield around your rooms, I’ll convince my brother to assign you guar—”

“Don’t you fucking understand?” Jaskier spits out. “I put you in danger!”

There’s a moment of silence.

Radovid sounds breathless when he says, “Jaskier, I’ve spent mere minutes in the presence of that man, and I cannot bear to recall them. Whatever he did to you,” Jaskier whimpers without meaning to, “and I am not asking; I beg you, do not give him the opportunity to repeat it. You’ve seen I’m better protected. Look at me. You don’t want me to get hurt. Right? If you leave, you’ll still be in danger, and I’ll know you are. That will hurt me.”

Jaskier shakes his head, but Radovid’s eyes give no quarter. “Please stay. We’ll get word to your witcher, to your mage. Please do not leave until they can protect you.”

This time, Jaskier doesn’t resist when Radovid takes his hand.

“And then you will never have to return here again. I promise you.” His voice is quiet, sincere. And sad.

A decisive rap on the door, and Jaskier is ashamed to be relieved. “Your Highness.”

They pull apart without even exchanging a glance. “Come in.”

Philippa strolls in. She makes no comment at spotting Jaskier.

“If you don’t mind, Your Grace, I need to inspect your rooms. Any trail or clue Rience might have left behind, I must find.”

She doesn’t await Radovid’s nod to begin. As she takes a turn around the room, hands faintly glowing, Jaskier takes it in too. The ashes have been swept, but the blackened wood remains. He glances at Radovid, also looking down.

“What’s…”

It takes Jaskier a moment to realize what he’s looking at, and then he only does because Radovid is lightly brushing his finger with his thumb. All that’s left of his ring is a small golden puddle, already solidified on the floor.

“Are you alright?” Jaskier asks, feeling wrong-footed.

Radovid answers, quietly, “It was my mother’s.”

Oh. “I’m sorry.”

“Nothing to be done.” Radovid turns his head a bit too quickly. “Philippa, are you quite finished?”

“Almost.”

Radovid’s jaw works. “With all your precious magic protecting us, how did this happen?”

“I am looking into it.” Philippa’s voice cuts the air like a knife.

“Are we supposed to leave it at that?” Radovid’s is no less incisive.

“Mages have many resources to find their prey,” she tuts, uncaring of the way Jaskier shivers or Radovid blanches. “How he managed to portal in here and slip past my defenses worries me far more.”

“It should.” Radovid sounds icy. The mage glares at him.

“Clearly, he’s being backed by someone far more powerful than him.”

“And more powerful than you, by the looks of it.”

Jaskier gets the feeling Philippa’s feathers would be ruffled if she was in her owl form. “I need to strengthen our defenses. Your Highness.”

Her bow is no less theatrical than her exit.

“I’m sure she’ll find him,” Jaskier says, then adds half-jokingly, “She has a heftier reason now than a humble bard in trouble.”

“I hope so.”

Jaskier knows what the right thing to say would be. He finds Radovid’s hand and squeezes it gently, silently.

He asked Malina about his clothes when she came by with lunch, but the girl’s only answer was to scrunch up her nose. He’ll just have to take the borrowed ones he’s wearing. He doesn’t think Radovid will be upset about that. Definitely not as much as he will be to see Jaskier has left without telling him.

He shakes his head. He can’t feel guilty about this when Radovid’s safety is the whole reason he’s doing it. Technically, he did not promise anything. And yet, just thinking of Radovid’s eyes when he finds out Jaskier’s gone…

There’s not much else for him to pack except some food. And his lute, but he ends up taking it back out of its case just so he can drown everything else with music.

Malina will be along with dinner soon. As soon as he packs that up as well, he will wait for dark and go. Maybe he should have pocketed those doughnuts, he thinks, then tries to chase away the memory of his pleasant breakfast with Radovid. He plays harder until his fingers hurt.

Rushed steps outside bring Jaskier out of his state. He’s still gripping the lute when frantic knocking almost makes him drop it.

“Jaskier!” Tomek’s voice. “Please, open up!”

The man’s face is ghostly white when he rushes to do so.

“It’s the prince,” Tomek says before Jaskier can ask at opening the door. “He’s— I— Please, come.”

The acrid smell hits him first. Radovid is kneeling by the chamber pot, heaving into it.

“What’s the matter?” Jaskier rushes to his side while Tomek closes the door. He pulls Radovid’s hair out of his face. His eyes are red-rimmed. “Why didn’t you get the doctor?”

Tomek, still pale, mouths something. Radovid whimpers. “Shh, it’s alright,” Jaskier murmurs, hand brushing his nape. Radovid wipes his mouth.

“Hedwig is dead,” he manages to say.

“What?” Jaskier throws another look at the door. Tomek has locked it, as if that will keep Rience out. “We need to get Philippa. She can protect you and—”

Radovid shakes his head and tears begin to run down his face. Not sure what else to do, Jaskier wraps his arms around him.

It’s okay, he wants to say, but that would be a lie. He glances back at Tomek. “Vizimir?”

“Alive.” The servant still looks pale. “In his chambers, with most of the guard posted around.”

“And how many guards are to come here?”

“Dijkstra told me the priority is the king.” Tomek sounds grim. “And that he and Lady Eilhart will personally ensure the prince’s wellbeing.”

As if they’ve been called, there’s a knock on the door. Radovid trembles in Jaskier’s arms, even though the shocks had subsided. Without thinking, Jaskier presses a kiss to his head.

Any relief he might have felt at seeing two guards at the door dissipates when one says, “You must accompany us, boy. Dijkstra’s orders.”

Tomek stutters. “I must stay with His Highness. Surely Dijkstra can—”

“Now,” is the barked reply. “He has some questions for you about the… incident.”

Blanching even more, Tomek glances back at Radovid, who stands up on unsteady feet. “Wait,” he says. “Tomek had nothing to do with this.”

“Begging your pardon, my lord,” the guard answers, “but this concerns the safety of the entire palace. Dijkstra speaks for the king at the moment. He believes someone else snuck in with the fire mage, perhaps with inside help.”

They don’t take him by force, but Tomek still looks like a condemned man as he’d led away. The door closes with a heavy, final thud.

“Radovid…” Jaskier can’t see his face, hidden in his hands. He puts a hand on his back. “Talk to me, please.”

“They killed her,” is what breaks out, “and I—” Jaskier fears for a moment he will vomit again, but he gets the nausea under control. “They cut her head off, put it in a chest. Someone gave it to Tomek— He didn’t know. I didn’t either. And I took it to my brother, like an idiot, and—”

“Gods,” Jaskier whispers.

“It’s my fault.” Radovid is crying again.

“Don’t say that.”

“It’s true! I told Dijkstra about the meeting, and now Hedwig is dead and Tomek— Gods, what they might be doing to him…”

“Shh.” Jaskier rubs his back, trying not to picture the worst. If Radovid keeps on like that, he’ll hyperventilate. “Come here.”

He manages to coax him to the bed. Radovid clings to him, and it seems the most natural thing in the world to climb in after and hold him through it.

They’re still lying like that when the prince murmurs, “Don’t bring Cirilla here.”

“What?”

Radovid takes a shaky breath. “Do not bring Cirilla here. Dijkstra and Philippa, they wanted my brother to marry her. I’m sorry I didn’t tell you. But Hedwig— Vizimir loves, loved her, truly. I didn’t think it would happen. I thought, even if they tried to persuade him, I could convince him to make Cirilla his ward, or....”

“Radovid,” Jaskier interrupts, not unkindly. “I know. I’ve always known. Since before I met you. It was obvious what your brother would want with Ciri.”

“But now— I never thought they would dare. They killed Hedwig. It wasn’t Nilfgaard. It was Dijkstra and Philippa.” Radovid blinks quickly, as if to stop himself from tearing up again. “I was wrong. Redania isn’t safe. Not for her, not for—” He stops abruptly, looks down.

“Nilfgaard didn’t kill the queen?” Something cold fills Jaskier’s belly as everything makes far more terrifying sense. Funny, he was just pitying Radovid for being too naïve.

Radovid lets out a breath. There’s an innocence gone from his eyes. Despite it all, Jaskier mourns it.

He kisses his forehead. “Get some rest.” Radovid burrows his face in Jaskier’s neck.

“Tell me a story,” he asks. “Something far away, with a happy ending.”

The first part is easy enough, the second, a tall order. After a few moments, Jaskier quietly speaks of a prince and a mermaid’s love. There’s danger and hurt and mistakes, but it all works out.

Radovid’s breathing relaxes. Hopefully he sleeps. Jaskier doesn’t think he’ll be able to.

Chapter Text

“I am done,” Tomek announces, voice gentle.

Radovid blinks. Jaskier has been watching him lose himself in the mirror and had not the heart to bring him back.

“Thank you.” The prince rises a bit unsteadily. Tomek hovers for a moment, locks eyes with Jaskier.

The servant was released in the middle of the night. Philippa had been in charge of his interrogation, and her mind-reading, as per her report, had brought no evidence of Tomek’s culpability. It should’ve been a relief. As things stand, it’s a feeble one. Maybe they took him and gave him back just to show that they could.

Jaskier doesn’t know how much Tomek knows. What he may suspect. It’s probably safer if Radovid does not tell him the truth about Hedwig’s death. He has no doubt Radovid knows this too. So the silence curls like smoke around them.

“Here.” Jaskier hands Radovid a goblet. “For the nerves.”

Although it’s half-full, he takes only a sip. The look in his eyes hasn’t changed since this morning, when Jaskier woke up with him still in his arms, staring at nothing.

“Are you sure you don’t want me to come with you?” Jaskier asks. He’s dressed for it, just in case Radovid changed his mind. He’d felt like a stranger as he put on the wine-red doublet with embroidered golden flowers, much too fine, much too constraining. But he did it.

Radovid nods. “I have to go.”

“I’ll be here when you come back,” Jaskier says, a carefully-worded promise. Radovid sighs.

“You want to leave when you should stay, and you decide to stay when you should leave.”

“I’m just a born contrarian,” Jaskier jokes. There is only the phantom of a smile on Radovid’s lips, but it’s enough. Jaskier squeezes his hand, and then the prince is off.

“You are a strange man.”

The unexpected words have Jaskier blinking up at Tomek, busy arranging sheets. “Well, a lot of people have said so, and I can’t say I disagree, but what brought this on?”

“I wanted you gone,” is what he gets instead of an answer. “I thought you would bring him only trouble and heartbreak.”

It takes a moment for Jaskier to push the words out. “You were not wrong.”

“No, I wasn’t.” Tomek stops trying to pretend to fold things. “And I was. I knew this was a dangerous place. I never imagined how much. I was blind, but now I see there is danger with you in the picture or out.”

After a moment, Tomek adds, “And he cares about you.”

“I know that,” Jaskier responds quietly.

“And when you break his heart, it’ll be up to me to pick up the pieces.”

“I don’t want to hurt him,” Jaskier’s voice comes out strangled.

“Then why do I feel you’re going to do so anyway?”

Jaskier stays silent.

“They want me to spy on him,” Tomek says suddenly, on the verge of tears. “On my prince. Or they’ll… What am I supposed to do?”

Jaskier takes a pause, then clasps the other man’s shoulder.

“Tell Radovid. He understands juggling the immoralities of court better than anyone I’ve met. And then you report back to Dijkstra. Comply. Radovid has nothing to hide, anyway.”

And he won’t, as long as Jaskier keeps him ignorant of everything concerning his life. He just barely avoids an epiphany too painful for the now and puts it away until it becomes too jagged to ignore.

“You’ll take care of him,” he finds himself saying. “Won’t you?”

“I always have.” There’s a quiet, reassuring fierceness in Tomek’s words.

He leaves. Jaskier spends the next hour trying not to think of the dead woman downstairs and all the people pretending to mourn her, walking about the room, half-heartedly playing. The lute seems as troubled as he feels, but they make do with steps uncertain and strings tart.

He stops wandering and plucking when the door opens again.

“Yennefer of Vengerberg is here.”

Jaskier blinks. “What?”

“She is here.” Radovid looks as pale as when he left, but his voice doesn’t wobble. “She wanted to talk to Philippa in private, I couldn’t stay.”

Jaskier runs for the door, stops, looks back. “It’s fine,” Radovid says, too quickly. “I left them downstairs, by the wake.”

“I’ll be back,” Jaskier promises, and is guiltily off before he can see any doubt creep in Radovid’s face. He races down the stairs, ignoring the scandalized glances of the mourning courtiers. But, when he reaches the room, he cannot spot the cascade of raven curls he hopes for. Rather, a fantastically dressed Philippa —has no one told her it’s rude to look this good at a funeral?— raises an eyebrow at him before sauntering away.

“Just missed her, bardling.” He bites back the sarcastic retort, Radovid’s confession from last night echoing in his ears, and swallows the bitterness. Can’t fate throw him a rope for once?

At least, he thinks while retracing his steps, that means he can go back to Radovid sooner. He looked so despondent, Jaskier doesn’t think—

“Ah, you’re still here! Fantastic. I need your opinion on something.” With long strides, Radovid walks towards his wardrobe, thrusts it open. “There’s a conclave of mages tomorrow, and I’ve no idea what to wear.”

“Radovid…”

“My brother has suddenly decided Philippa and Dijkstra shall attend and I must accompany them.”

That shuts down whatever Jaskier was planning to say. The prince turns and Jaskier sees it on his face, in his eyes, so plain it’s a wonder others cannot. Shaken to their core. Begging to feel as before. Asking him to play along.

Jaskier has pretended for many reasons and many people. He can find little reason not to do it for Radovid now.

“Well,” he says, sitting on the bed and adopting the unconcerned air of the flippant bard who cares only for the finest pleasures of life, “if my prince needs advice, he has come to the right man.”

Radovid smiles with something like fraught relief, and the moment he dumps the assortment of clothes on the bed, he too has transformed, and they are encased in a warm, fragile bubble.

“I have a lot to choose from.”

Understatement. He picks out a rich green doublet, beautiful thing. Jaskier definitely isn’t envious, because jealousy doesn’t become him at all, but he briefly allows himself to miss the time when he could wear those —albeit not quite as fine, of course— and not get them dirty or torn beyond recognition in less than a week.

To his mild surprise, Radovid sheds the doublet he is wearing and begins to lace up this one. He’s always thought there is a warm intimacy to seeing someone get dressed. Like seeing them put on their armor, privy to the last moments of serenity before going out to battle.

He realizes he’s been staring when he sees the corner of Radovid’s mouth turn up.

“Do you have advice you wish to share, or is it that you cannot keep your eyes off me?”

“No,” Jaskier chokes out, and damn, that simply won’t do. He cannot be outdone in flirtation. He’s the Slut of Cidaris, for gods’ sake, and yet he’s already behind in their private score. “But if I did, I’d tell you to choose that other one. Beautiful and azure, like the sea. One could say it matches your eyes. Maybe.”

The prince sighs. “Very cliché. Didn’t expect that from you.”

Jaskier’s face twitches. “It’s a cliché for a reason.”

“Is it.” Radovid’s fingers brush the dark green thread on the sleeve before leaving it on the bed and obediently putting on the blue. “How is that?”

Invited to stare, Jaskier does so unabashedly. “Perfect.”

The pink on Radovid’s cheeks does contrast with it in a marvelous way. “We still have many to try. Ration your flattery.”

“Never,” Jaskier declares, and drinks up Radovid’s laugh.

A whole rainbow of doublets comes and goes. It was a pretty big wardrobe. All of a sudden, he wonders if the clothes he’s been lent during his stay are, in fact, Radovid’s. Unless the palace has a supply for guests, they are much too fine to belong to anyone else. Something warm fills his belly.

“Thank you, by the way,” he ventures. “For the clothes. If you hadn’t loaned them to me, I would’ve been walking around naked these past few days.”

Radovid dramatically sighs. “If only you had warned me before.” Jaskier barks out a laugh.

The prince rummages through his closet and they fall into silence. Eventually, he seems to pick the blue number. If asked, Jaskier would say he is sure it’s a coincidence, but his own smug smile would get in the way of being believed. Radovid begins to put the clothes back in.

“Are you certain?”

“Absolutely. The grey is too drab for the occasion, the red too blatantly patriotic, and the purple—”

“I meant about going to the conclave.” As he says it, Jaskier can see the real Radovid regretfully reappear.

“You speak as if I have a choice.” A curtain of hair hides Radovid’s face. “My brother gave his orders.”

Not for the first time, Jaskier wishes a man like him could deck Vizimir in the face, just once, with no repercussions. But the idiot does not even realize he is surrounded by sharks. Of course he would invite everybody to swim.

“I just don’t like the idea of you going alone with them. I wish I could come along.”

He truly does, which surprises himself most of all. Jaskier would have to be walked at swordpoint into an event organized by the Brotherhood that mistreated Yennefer so badly she had to become a magicless fugitive. They can eat their enchanted clams themselves, and he hopes they choke.

Radovid sighs. “With Rience still loose, I don’t know if I agree. Where is it less safe for you, here or there?”

Jaskier gives him a wan smile. “Couldn’t say.”

“Me neither. Philippa’s security measures should remain strong even while she’s away, but I just… I don’t like the thought of you staying here alone, without…”

Jaskier looks up at Radovid when he trails off, and blinks once, twice.

Yennefer is there, with the unconscious prince of Redania in her arms, lowering him to the bed with finesse. A portal shimmers in the corner, lowly thrumming with her power.

“Yen, what—?”

“Are you hurt?”

“No. No, I’m fine.” He welcomes her hug, then puts up with her staring him up and down, trying to make sure he’s been honest. “I thought you left.”

“I was going to.” She frowns. “Then I got the dumbest idea. I thought, no, there is no way. But I cast my magic anyway. And, lo and behold, there was your stupid presence. What happened to you?” And, before he has a chance to open his mouth again, she adds, “What are you doing here?”

It takes him a second to say, “Rience.” Her face hardens.

“Bastard.”

“No argument here,” he adds quickly, “and no offense, but you could’ve just knocked.”

“Oh, is that how it is?” She gives him another once-over, but this time she is clearly judging his appearance. “Philippa didn’t mention you. I thought they might be keeping you here against your will.”

“Well, they weren’t.” He gives in and glances at Radovid. “What did you do to him?”

She looks back as if she had already forgotten. “Ah, nothing. Simple spell. He’ll be asleep for half an hour, at the most.”

“So he’ll be alright?” he insists, too serious, too fast, as he realizes when her sharp gaze comes back to him. “He helped me.”

“Yes,” she says after a moment, one black eyebrow arched. “I’m not reckless enough to murder a member of the most powerful royal family in the Continent. Yet.”

After surveying the room, she grabs his lute and hands it over. Then she turns, taking hold of his arm.

“Let’s hurry.” Jaskier hesitates. “I had a chance thanks to the amount of funeral attendees, but the longer I keep the portal open, the more likely it is Philippa will notice. And, given she’s already displeased with me, I would rather we keep her beak out of our business.”

She is probably right. Yet…

His gaze falls on Radovid. They both knew Jaskier was going to leave. He made no secret of it. But he still cannot follow, cannot go just like that. He was going to just yesterday. So why can’t he?

“Wait.”

Before Yen’s presence can inhibit him, he unclasps the chain around his neck, plucks one of his golden rings from it. He sets it down on the table and, pretending he can’t feel Yennefer’s gaze on him, shoots one last look at Radovid. His slumber seems peaceful, chest rising and lowering at a steady rhythm, long eyelashes resting on his cheeks.

When he goes to the portal and mutters “Let’s go,” she doesn’t ask him anything. He sets foot inside and it’s the strangest feeling, something that he would word better if he had a pen and time, but that for now receives the name of homesickness adjacent.

Chapter Text

Melitele, Jaskier hates this party.

He’d laughed when Yennefer told him they were coming, only to slowly realize she was serious. More than that, that the whole reason the conclave was happening was Yen herself. He’s not certain how one goes so swiftly from outlaw to main event planner in the eyes of the Northern mages, but if anyone has the charisma to pull it off…

Although his witch had explained it all concisely and decisively, he’d been able to hear the tension in her voice. She’d been fluttering about, portalling here and there, finalizing the preparations. He’d seen Geralt as well, but only for a moment, and he’d been pretty non-verbal. Jaskier wasn’t sure if he was saving his socializing energy for the upcoming party or if he was just in a bad mood because he’d been told he had to wear a doublet.

Ciri was apparently already hidden, in a cottage in Loxia, with every magical security measure and then some. Jaskier hadn’t even gotten to see her yet. He spent the entire day writing in an attempt to not think about the future. And if those thoughts had led him to a certain prince, well, he’d take whatever comfort he could in it.

But now he is in the grand ballroom of Aretuza, surrounded by mages, and he needs to focus. However disagreeable for all of them, this has to work. It’s the latest desperate attempt to find a safe place for Ciri. Jaskier hasn’t had any more luck finding one, so he’s taken it in stride.

Easier said than done, though. For a start, Valdo Marx is here. Then there’s the knowledge that they are in a nest of highly poisonous vipers, which has his hair standing on end. Not even the prospect of drink and food had cheered him, especially not when Yen eyed his doublet —well, Radovid’s— and declared he was more than decent, with a tone that implied certain questions were being saved for later.

And everywhere he goes, he feels eyes on his nape, only to find none looking when he turns. Sorcerers are a delight. They don’t even need to stare to keep tabs on you.

Yen must be used to it or is just a pro at concealing it bothers her, considering how easily she is dazzling a group. In his formal clothes, Geralt doesn’t look any happier. He’s off talking to a tall dark stranger that Jaskier wouldn’t mind being introduced to in different circumstances.

He takes a deep breath and wonders if it would be awfully rude to cover his ears to muffle Valdo’s screeching.

“Enjoying yourself?” Yen’s smile is blinding, and does not falter when she adds in a whisper, “Seriously, Geralt is bad enough. I thought you would be a big help tonight, with your…”

“Charm? Enchanting conversation?”

“Loudness of being is more what I had in mind.”

“Sorry. Not feeling very loud tonight.”

“Make an effort.” She smiles at a passing mage and, when she turns, he can see the worry in her eyes. “Please.”

“Anything for you.”

Yen parades him around and he meets so many people all their magically perfect faces blend together. A few ask about his music, but most of them seem only interested in discussing either sorcery or themselves. But he listens and he smiles at the right moments and it’s only slightly irritating.

He is listening to Triss Merigold’s dissertation about the differences between wild roses and magically grown ones when he hears Yen exhale by his side.

“Oh, wonders never cease. It seems you are not the only one willing to heed me for once.”

Jaskier follows her gaze and his heart somehow drops and flutters at the same time. Philippa Eilhart has made her entrance, with Dijkstra by her side and Radovid in tow. He glances away just as the prince’s eyes widen a fraction at seeing him.

He was half-hoping Radovid wouldn’t be here, forced to play chummy with his sister-in-law’s killers, and half-hoping he would show up, because Jaskier can’t quite believe their last conversation had been about something as stupid as clothes.

“Come with me,” Yen murmurs, but it is not that which spurs him on. “Philippa. What a joy that you decided to join us.”

Eilhart’s dark eyebrow forms a perfect arch. “Anything for my king.”

“And you brought company.” Yen’s face will hurt from all the unnatural smiling tomorrow. “Dijkstra, nice to see you again.”

Her target, however, is not making the same effort. Dijkstra nods sullenly before skulking off, probably to plot someone’s demise.

“May I present,” Philippa intervenes, not completely uncaring of protocol, “Prince Radovid of Redania.”

“Your Highness,” Yen curtsies with effortless elegance. Not that Radovid notices as he glances at the floating lights above. “A pleasure to officially meet you.”

“Yennefer of… Vengerberg, was it? Quite the social butterfly you are, or a moth, more like. I heard you burned down Sodden. And the execution site. Third flame’s the charm, eh?”

It strikes Jaskier just how jarring it is to hear him talk like that. Now that he’s not terrified out of his mind as he was in the secret shelter, it’s not hard to put into words —a cocktail of air-headedness, tipsiness and indifference—, but he hadn’t consciously noticed Radovid hadn’t been using it with him these past few days.

“Not tonight,” she replies with that smile of hers, impish and venomous, which indicates she wants to gouge out your spleen and keep it in a glass jar. It’s a testament to Radovid’s experience in the field that he merely smiles vacantly.

“Aw, pity.”

“But I hope the evening won’t be too boring. I believe you’ve met the famed storyteller of the Continent, the bard Jaskier?”

He bows and Radovid holds out his hand. It’s a glistening, polished version of their first meeting, but Jaskier can’t help but feel he preferred that one. Then he sees.

The hand he expected to see bare is not. A familiar plain golden band is wrapped around one of Radovid’s fingers. He kisses the skin right below it, pretends not to notice a tiny twitch.

“Your Highness.” The hand flees from his grip, and he fights the urge to reclaim it.

“Master bard. Will you be playing this evening?”

“No, Your Grace. I am here only as a guest, to divert with my wit instead of my songs.” Jaskier’s eyes slide over to Philippa, who is the tactful recipient of Yennefer’s very effusive and surprisingly not totally fake gratefulness for her assistance, then to Dijkstra, who watches the hall like a bird of prey. “I’m afraid you’ll have to enjoy Valdo Marx.”

Radovid half-shrugs. “Never cared much for music as long as there was mead and food. Excuse me.”

He goes over to the victuals. Jaskier stares after him, despite trying not to.

“Don’t even think about it.” He resolutely, definitely does not startle when Yennefer’s voice fills his ear. She is smiling as she lifts her glass to some sorcerer. “I didn’t want to ask because I didn’t want to know, but seriously? Is that why I found you in his rooms, dressed like that?”

“No,” he says, knowing he won’t be believed if he tells the truth. “He… helped me, that’s all.”

“Don’t that’s all me, I know that look. And you left him a ring. Really? The Prince of fucking Redania?”

“This room is filled with people who could turn my nipples into snakes,” he counters. “Maybe you should just be thankful I haven’t got my eye on one of them.”

“Perhaps this is progress. Ah, Rita!”

Yennefer’s attention leaves him and Jaskier is not embarrassed to admit that with it goes the only tenuous tie that kept him in place. He searches the room before he can even think about it, but he cannot find him. He slips away and reaches the hall.

Radovid is by the ornate banister. Jaskier moves like a rope is pulling him.

He looks downtrodden in a way Jaskier’s never seen him at court. Either Jaskier has gotten even better at reading him, or Radovid is not at his best.

“Lost your way?”

Radovid startles. “Go back inside.”

Jaskier cannot help the pang of hurt. “Oh. I see.”

“Jaskier, it’s not— Wait.”

That alone stops him, and he is glad for the absence of mirrors out here, for he is not keen to see his own pathetic, pleading reflection right now.

“I, er— Tomek still has your clothes,” Radovid mumbles. “They had to be mended. And apparently, according to the washers, it took a while to get rid of ‘the smell’.”

“Ah, yes, that’d be a healthy mix of sweat and soldier’s vomit. Give them all my thanks. Not sure when I’ll be able to pick them up, though.” He idly follows the embroidered line of flowers on his doublet with a fingertip. “And you’ll probably want this back.”

“Keep it,” Radovid says. “It suits you.”

“I’ll just ruin it,” Jaskier confesses. “I shouldn’t be trusted with something so delicate.”

Radovid is quiet for a moment. “I think you can take care of it,” he finally says, “if you really want to.”

Jaskier swallows. “As you wish.”

They stand in silence by the banister. A couple of giggling mages walk by and disappear into a dark corner. Literally disappear into it. Jaskier is pretty envious of them right now. He thinks about taking Radovid by the hand and fleeing to some space in-between.

“I figured Rience hadn’t been the one to come for you,” Radovid says, suddenly, “given that my apartments were not in cinders when I awoke. But I would have appreciated a note.”

“Ah.” Jaskier stammers. “Right.”

He opens his mouth, ready to apologize.

“You’re wearing my ring.”

No time to figure out what the fuck just possessed him to say that to Radovid’s face. The prince’s hands squirm, almost cover the guilty finger.

“I didn’t think you’d be here.”

And Jaskier could change the subject at that, crack a joke, but instead says, “You wouldn’t have worn it, then?”

“You said you weren’t coming. Why are you here?” Radovid asks then, more cutting than he expected. Jaskier straightens.

“I told you. I was invited. Why are you here?”

“You know my brother asked me to come.”

“Not here. I mean here, here.” He gestures to the torch-lit hall. “Shouldn’t you be in there, eating, drinking and spying to Dijkstra’s heart’s content?”

He was trying to jest, but he’s not imagining the pang of hurt in Radovid’s eyes.

“Yes, I should,” he says quietly. “Philippa wants me to… engage you.”

“To coax information out of me.” Jaskier pretends he doesn’t feel cold as he leans on the stone.

“Yes.”

“About Ciri.” Radovid nods. “They think I know where she is, and they know I am more likely to give it away than Yen or Geralt.”

Radovid shifts at his bitterness.

“Well, I do know,” Jaskier says. “Won’t you run inside and tell them?”

“Do you think I want to?”

“I think right now you’re the one in a difficult situation.”

“I’m not going to tell them anything,” Radovid says. “That’s why I was out here alone.”

And not in there with you. Jaskier swallows. “I see.”

“You were right.” Radovid’s voice is small. “About everything. Rience, Philippa, Dijkstra. The palace is not safe.”

The words bring an echo back to Jaskier’s mind. “Not safe for whom?”

Radovid jerks as if shaken awake, makes to leave. “I shouldn’t be talking to you.”

Jaskier takes his arm. When Radovid gasps, he realizes it is the same one Rience hurt, the same one he kissed. He lets go as if it is still aflame, as if it is still warm.

“Not safe for whom?” It comes out softer. Radovid still flinches.

“Please don’t ask me that. I don’t want to lie to you.”

“I don’t think you can,” Jaskier says softly.

Radovid swallows, hesitates, then, slowly, takes his hand.

“Be with your family. Keep them safe. And forget everything else.”

“What about you,” Jaskier murmurs. “Tell me what’s wrong. Tell me and I’ll—”

He’ll what? His own family is constantly on the brink of ruin by at least three different factions, and Jaskier is certainly the least capable of the bunch of protecting anybody, that much is for sure.

But, looking at Radovid, he wants to.

The prince seems to follow his thoughts. “There is nothing you can do.” This is not cruel, merely objective. “And if there were, I wouldn’t ask you to.”

Jaskier wants to protest. He wishes, suddenly, to be able to wield a sword or perform fearsome spells. But he can’t, and even were it otherwise, it would not change anything at all.

It dawns on him then, in the hallway, with magic floating in the air and playful shadows on the walls. “This is impossible, isn’t it?”

There it is, the epiphany he was trying so hard to cover up, sinking its teeth into his heart. The reality that the two —Radovid and Jaskier’s little family— can never be together. His chest aches. He feels very stupid at having held on to any other belief, and at taking so long to let it go.

Radovid’s face crumples. Jaskier has the wild idea that he is about to cry, and the prince’s voice seems to echo it. “Yes, I suppose so.”

Jaskier suddenly feels a rush of rage towards all these mages dancing around each other, without a care for them both. Can’t they read their thoughts? Don’t they care? But, of course, they have forever.

“How can I leave you without knowing you’ll be alright?” Jaskier asks, voice strangled.

“The same way I will, not knowing if you will be.”

Radovid kisses his hand, and then he’s gone, engulfed by the darkness of the corridor.

Jaskier knows he should go back inside, plaster on a smile and charm some guests like Yennefer requested. He stays put.

He feels it a second before her voice drawls, “Bardling, we sorely miss your talents.”

Taking a breath, he tries to become who she expects. He hopes she was not watching them from the shadows. He hopes Radovid won’t be in trouble for disobeying her. “Not a Valdo Marx fan, I take it?”

Philippa smiles sweetly. “If I could get away with it, I would choke him with the strings of his instrument.”

“So we finally agree on something.”

Her head tilts as she observes him and one black feather from her headdress almost makes him sneeze.

“I came to give you good news,” she says. “Metal, stone, crystal.”

He blinks. “Am I supposed to understand what that means?”

“It’s how Rience found you.” Scraping one nerve-wracking nail along his neck, she fishes out his chain and holds it up. The tuning fork and the ring twinkle in the torchlight. “A very specific tracking spell. It requires time and patience; and as a result, I didn’t expect him to use it. Someone else’s idea, I would bet.”

“This?” Jaskier asks, incredulous. “It’s made of common steel, and the ring is not even real gold. Nothing special.”

“It’s not about it being special,” Philippa hums. She must be in a good mood, if she’s humoring him. Or hoping he will get chatty in return. “You see, when a person wears a certain object, especially if they do so for a long time, it absorbs a part of their essence. Like clothes retaining smell, except it’s something made of stone, crystal or—”

“Metal?” The music from the hall sounds distorted to his ears. “My metal?”

“Exactly.” She leans in. “And, much like a hunting dog, once Rience caught your scent, he followed it.”

Jaskier grips her arm. Before she can even glare at him for his audacity, there’s a muffled scream. One they both recognize.

Chapter Text

He and Philippa cross the threshold almost at the same time. Jaskier stops so suddenly that, were she less cautious, she would’ve crashed into him. But she’s remained by the door, glinting eyes fixed on the scene before them.

Rience has one arm around Radovid’s neck. His other hand is too close to the prince’s face, flame at the ready. Its light is reflected on Radovid’s terrified eyes. Jaskier’s muscles all lock up.

“Oh, there you are.” Rience sounds cheerful. “I was just telling… What was your name, princeling? Radovid? I was just telling Radovid how strange it is that, both times I track you down, he just happens to be there. Fancy that.”

He tightens his grip. Radovid makes to prevent it, but he is soon jostled, and his hands fall back down. As they do, Jaskier’s traitorous ring on his finger catches the light. Jaskier swallows.

“You,” Philippa’s tone drips venom. “Did you not have enough last time?”

“Nice little reunion you’ve got in there. I wouldn’t have minded an invitation.”

“Nobody wanted you here,” she replies nonchalantly. “Now, let the prince go and maybe I won’t disembowel you.”

Rience pretends to consider it. “No.”

“You must be mad if you think there’s an out.”

“Oh, I think there is,” Rience drawls. “How’s it gonna look for you and your little school if the Redanian heir dies here, tonight? Painfully, I might add.”

Radovid whimpers. Jaskier’s fist clenches.

“The way I see it, we have three choices. One, you and me have it out. These two insects will probably die in the crossfire. I don’t lose anything, but your standing in the royal court may be slightly affected.”

Philippa’s frown deepens.

“Two, you leave me to my business.” He gestures at Jaskier. “You tell me where the girl is, I let this weakling go and we all get to live another day.”

Slowly, Rience licks his lips.

“Three,” he says, savoring it, eyes on Jaskier’s. “I kill him and then get the truth out of you, my way. I’ve been aching for a rematch.”

“I don’t know where she is,” Jaskier whispers. “Please, let him go.”

“I will burn him alive.” Rience’s voice could not be calmer. “I will not stop until the flesh falls from his bones.”

The tears dry too quickly to track down Radovid’s cheeks. Jaskier can feel his own, though. “Don’t do it,” Jaskier’s voice is so shaky it’s a wonder it even forms words. “I don’t know.”

“You’ve lied to me twice already,” Rience observes. “There won’t be a third time.”

“Really, Rience,” Philippa’s silky voice prevails over theirs. “You’re smarter than you seem. After all, someone managing to sneak into my palace undetected is quite a feat. I would be offended if I wasn’t so interested in your… patron.”

“Not the subject, witch.”

“Oh, but perhaps it should be. See, I think you lot are so hellbent on opposing us that you might have forgotten a useful maxim: the enemy of my enemy is my friend.”

She circles him slowly. Rience mirrors her, not letting go of Radovid.

“I am not Vizimir. I will not pretend to be an ally of Nilfgaard,” Philippa continues. “But I do very much want to know where Princess Cirilla is. Here is what I suggest: give me some time to plunder the bard’s mind. Once I have her location, I give it to you, you let the prince go, and then do whatever you like with the minstrel. Deal?”

“No,” Radovid says, but nobody minds him.

Rience huffs out a laugh. “There’s only one problem with that. I expect you to lie far more successfully than he does.”

She sighs. “Well, Sandpiper, I tried. Now, be a good boy and tell us where Cirilla is. Time is running out.”

Jaskier glares at her as if he’s been betrayed, which is ridiculous. He swallows, trying to resist the urge to keep Rience —and his flame— out of sight. The fire mage’s attention is back to him and him alone, suffocating, intense.

“Please, don’t.” It’s a useless plea, as useless as himself, but it’s all that comes to his lips. “Please, don’t.”

And Radovid is staring at him, too loyal to ask him to talk, too scared to bid him not to.

“Radovid…”

Jaskier doesn’t know what he’s about to say. He doesn’t get to find out.

Rience’s flame expands, covers his whole hand, inches from Radovid’s eye. Jaskier’s scream gets stuck in his throat and his stomach sinks with the realization of what’s going to happen in a second.

But that second never comes.

After one agonizing moment where Jaskier is certain the mage is just dragging this out to torture both of them, he blinks, and that’s when he notices. Rience does not move. What’s more impressive, neither does his flame, frozen in time.

Radovid is still trembling when Philippa clicks her tongue.

“Come here, you useless rag.” She pulls him out of Rience’s hold carefully, but not gently. “Get out.”

Radovid stumbles away, right into Jaskier’s arms.

“What…?”

“He crossed into my territory once,” Philippa observes. “Did he think he would leave no trace behind? One hair was enough.”

The flame trembles. Rience’s eyes move. Slowly, like it takes the strength of ten men, he snaps his fingers. Jaskier yells out—

Suddenly, it’s as if a tornado has come into the room. He manages to glance to his left to find it’s the next best thing. Yennefer, face stony, hand extended, has pushed Rience to the wall, and her wind has dispersed the fire born from his hand. It spreads to all of the rogue mage’s body and, as he opens his mouth to scream, the sound is—

“Yen,” Jaskier rasps, and as her eyes flick towards him quickly, he feels that magical pull, as if he’s about to fall off a cliff. He closes his eyes and grips Radovid tightly.

Chapter Text

They still stumble. Jaskier’s knees hit the floor —no, the ground, and a pretty soft one, at that. Radovid makes a noise and scurries away, heaving. Jaskier can’t say he’s doing much better. Well, that was a waste of a banquet, he thinks, wiping his mouth. Then again, most of the food was probably an illusion. And speaking of magic…

“W—Where are we?”

The prince’s voice echoes a little in the dark. A slight breeze washes over them. Jaskier looks around. Right above them, there’s no stars, so they’re probably in a cave. Thankfully not too deep, he can spot a fair patch of sky further right. Besides the stars, a few lights twinkle in the distance.

The sound of the waves tells him something, at least. “I don’t know,” he says. Tridam? Roggeveen? Bremervoord? Lots of places have a coast. “Are you alright?”

“Yes… No.”

“Can you follow my voice?”

He hears Radovid’s feet on the sand and lets out a breath when their hands meet. Before he can think about it, Jaskier has pulled him into an embrace.

“I’m sorry. I’m so, so sorry.”

“Jaskier…”

“I couldn’t tell him, I couldn’t let him take Ciri—”

“I know.”

“If he’d hurt you again, I’d have never forgiven myself.”

“I’m okay.” Radovid’s shaky breath hits his neck. “What do we do?”

“Okay,” he breathes in. “It seems around the same time as when we left, so I have to assume we’re not on the opposite side of the Continent.”

“Shouldn’t we go? Find out where we are?”

He shakes his head before remembering Radovid can’t see it. “The tide has already risen and this cave is not flooded. That means it’s safe, until morning at least. But going out there blind… Plus, I’m sure Yen will come pick us up when she can. Probably best not to go too far.”

“Do you think he is dead?” Radovid asks quietly.

It’d be difficult to overstate Jaskier’s hatred for Rience. And yet, the image of his body alight will be very hard to recall without a chill. “If he isn’t already, he will soon be.”

“Good,” Radovid states, and grips Jaskier tighter.

“I should never have given you my ring.” Even in the dark, he can feel Radovid’s doe eyes on him. “It’s not— Rience tracked you, well, me, with it.”

“Oh.”

“I’m sorry. If I had known he could find me through it, I never would’ve given it to you.”

“I like that you gave it to me,” Radovid murmurs.

“I’ve still put you in danger twice now.”

“Well, I’m glad I could draw him away from you.” Radovid sounds sincere, but his voice still trembles. Jaskier lets out a shaky breath and presses his lips to his head.

With his warmth pressed next to him and the sound of the ocean, it’s hard to tell how much time has passed when Radovid says, “So, we’re staying?”

“We shouldn’t risk it till it’s light. Trust me. I’m a coast boy, born and raised.”

“You are?” There’s genuine curiosity in Radovid’s voice. Usually, Jaskier hates talking about this, but they could both use a distraction, he supposes.

So they sit down on the sand and he talks. About his home, the sea, Essi. Even his birth family.

He’s surprised by how easy it is.

“Before today, I’d only seen the ocean in paintings,” Radovid confesses after Jaskier is done waxing poetic about sea urchins. “I caught a glimpse of it out a window before we left for the banquet… I was hoping to go see it in the morning.” He rises and takes Jaskier’s hand. “Come with me?”

Their eyes are as accustomed to the darkness as they are going to get, and the excitement in Radovid’s voice is too sweet to resist. Jaskier lets himself be led.

“I love the sound,” Radovid sighs, and Jaskier’s heart melts. He lets out a chuckle when Radovid adds, “Do you want to go swimming?”

“Do you even know how to?”

“Of course! In a lake.”

“Ocean’s a little different,” Jaskier points out. “You have to be careful with the currents. But fine. Just stay close.”

Radovid gets, indeed, quite close. “If you insist.”

Jaskier feels his hands on his shoulders, traveling towards his chest. They begin to unpick the laces slowly. Fuck it all. In reply, Jaskier returns the favor.

“Told ya I’d ruin it,” he quips as he throws the borrowed doublet on the sand.

“It’s so cold!” Radovid gasps, and poor thing, he can’t see Jaskier’s smirk. He squeals when Jaskier splashes in his general direction. “Oh, you—!”

Giggling like children, they sink into the water. The waves are gentle as they swim to warm up. They stop where they can still stand.

“Better?”

“Hmm.”

Jaskier reaches out anyway. “Not better. I can feel that gooseflesh.”

Radovid swims closer. His breath caresses Jaskier’s face.

“Warm me, then.”

Touching Radovid like this is thrilling. When Jaskier pulls him in, his own body shivers, feeling everything pressed up against him. Jolts of pleasure assault him as he dips one hand down Radovid’s back, another settling on his hip. Radovid’s hands find his tuning fork, play with it, go lower.

“Radovid,” he pants in his mouth, not caring that it sounds like begging.

He kisses Jaskier and he tastes like salt. Among noises of pleasure, unclear who they belong to, Jaskier devours his mouth.

Radovid is grinding against him. Jaskier’s hand sneaks down and finds his length, and he’s sorry he can barely see it, for it must look gorgeous, matching Radovid’s desperate gasp.

“Jaskier,” he moans, throwing his head back. Jaskier wants him to lose himself in pleasure, but Radovid has enough presence of mind to find Jaskier, too. He exhales shakily on Radovid’s shoulder, bites it because he can.

“Ah—!”

It doesn’t last long, but considering how long Jaskier has wanted to do this, he’ll take it. Radovid comes with a cry and Jaskier soon follows, panting against his skin. He kisses it absently as Radovid holds onto him like he’s afraid the current is going to take him away. The waves lap at their bodies as they kiss until Jaskier has lost all sense of time.

They end up back in the cave, half-lying on a rock. It’s not comfortable in the least, but Radovid cuddles against him with a dreamy sigh like they’re on a goosefeather mattress.

The prince’s hand rests on his chest. Jaskier can feel his soft breathing as he plays with Radovid’s wet locks.

“What’s that?” Radovid sleepily asks, and Jaskier realizes he was unconsciously singing under his breath. The prince did sit aside the sea, blushing with his siren…

“Oh, hmm. That story I told you about, there’s a song too. It’s mine.”

“No,” Radovid disagrees, burrowing his face in the crook of his neck. “‘S ours.”

Chapter Text

They are woken up by the world ending, it sounds like.

Clinging to each other is all they can do while the earthquake is going on, while the noise makes them think the entire sky is falling on them.

Then, silence.

Radovid rises and helps him up. Ears ringing, they walk out into the feeble daylight.

The sight hits Jaskier like a punch to the stomach. Aretuza, in front of his eyes, a burning ruin. His heart pounds. They’re too far to make anyone out. Gods…

“Come on,” Radovid says, and when he holds out a hand, Jaskier accepts it.

They dress in a hurry. The beach is deserted. Hard to know if that’s better or worse. Jaskier feels like a right fool. If he’d known Yennefer had chucked them just out the window…

The horizon feels strangely empty, and he suddenly realizes what is missing. Tor Lara is gone.

“What happened here?” he hears himself ask. Radovid squeezes his hand.

They are close to the school when Radovid suddenly stops.

“What—”

There’s three people on the ground ahead. Jaskier’s knees feel weak with relief when he spots Yen, and he is glad to recognize Triss Merigold’s curls as well. They’re some of the most powerful Aretuza has— had to offer, of course they’ve made it—

“Oh, Jaskier,” Radovid murmurs, and then he sees.

Against his every need, the ground feels like quicksand and his feet too heavy to move. As if he knows, Radovid takes him along, doesn’t let go until they’re right by Geralt’s prone form.

Jaskier sinks to his knees and it’s then that Yen sees him through the tears.

“Jask.” The single broken word is too much.

“Yen,” he manages to say, “What happened?”

Her expression twists with fury, then grief, but she shakes her head. “Triss…”

“I’ll do what I can.” Triss shakes her head. “Help me lift him up.”

Jaskier is about to when there’s a touch on his back. Wordlessly, Radovid makes room for himself by Geralt’s other shoulder.

The four of them manage, but it gets easier when a few other mages find them. As if through a fog, Jaskier sees them lay Geralt down in one of the few school bedrooms that survived. He sees Triss and Yen sitting by his cot. Another mage, Marti something, stays close too.

“Hey.” He looks down at the cup Radovid is offering. “Drink.”

He obeys like an automaton, and only then realizes how thirsty he was.

“What happened?” he repeats, and to his horror, he gets an answer. Yen explains it all. Vilgefortz, Tissaia, the elves, Redania. Ciri. Through it all, Radovid sits by him silently, rubbing his hand. When Yen’s voice fades, it feels like there is a dark cloud inside the room. Jaskier can barely hear anything under it, barely sees people talk, come and go.

It feels like a hundred years have gone by when Yen walks up.

“He’ll live,” she rasps. “But his leg— And Jask, Ciri—”

A sob swallows the rest as he envelops her in a hug.

“Me and Triss will stay with him,” Marti says, firmly disengaging them. “The rest of you, get to bed. Or to whatever we’ve managed to set up. You can get back to worrying in a few hours.”

It’s a testament to how tired they are that none of them protest. There are people already laying down in the improvised bedrolls. Some of them are bloodied. Some of them are crying. Jaskier thinks there’s no way in hell he and Yen will sleep, and then he blinks and the sun is high in the sky.

“Jaskier,” says whoever shook him awake. “He’s conscious.”

Getting to his feet and waking Yen is done at the speed of light. Then they’re walking down the destroyed hall and he realizes they’re following Radovid, who is also carrying bandages and a jug of water.

“What are you doing?”

“Er, just helping out.”

“And not as badly as I thought,” Marti hums when they turn the corner. “I’ve had worse nurses.”

“Thanks?”

“Geralt,” Yen breathes out, and propels forward. Jaskier stays behind for a moment, just enough to squeeze Radovid’s hand.

He doesn’t remember how long the three of them sit in that room, holding each other, crying. Geralt’s body is in horrible pain, that much is clear, but their hearts ache from Ciri’s disappearance even more.

Because it must be only that. Jaskier doesn’t care that a stone tower shattered with her in it. That girl is tough, and a Child of Destiny, and, and… everything they’ve got. She must have survived. She must have.

Another century passes.

“Jaskier.” Radovid clasps his shoulder. “You two haven’t eaten anything in a day.”

“I’m not hungry.”

“That’s irrelevant.”

“Look, Radovid—”

“You said I could treat you to breakfast anytime,” Radovid says with such royal aplomb that it somehow stops Jaskier’s complaints in their tracks. The prince takes the chance to put the bread in his hand. “It’s not quince jelly, but it’s something.”

Jaskier stares at him helplessly, but Radovid stays put, because apparently he is not going to leave until he actually sees him eat. He elbows Yen and gives her half, because if he’s gonna be bullied into taking care of himself, she is too. Radovid’s hand brushes his shoulder as he leaves. He wishes it would linger.

They eat in silence, but Jaskier knows what’s coming.

“We need to talk.” Although Yennefer still sounds exhausted, he can hear the embers in her voice. “Decide what to do. Where to go from here.”

Without meaning to, Jaskier turns back. He spots Radovid standing by Marti while she heaps bloody towels onto his arms. His face is a little pale, but the smile he gives Jaskier as he catches him looking makes something flutter in his gut.

He swallows. “Yeah, I know.”

Chapter Text

Jaskier wakes the next morrow with a clear head.

Geralt and Yennefer are still asleep. He silently gets up and exits. First, he goes to find the little room he’d been assigned before the ball began, what seems like eons ago. Being of little magical consequence has had its reward, as it’s located far enough from the action that the entire ceiling didn’t collapse. Coyly hidden under the bed, only half-covered in dust, his lute awaits.

“Lucky, is what you are,” he mutters as he caresses her. He looks around. He knows there’s nothing else he needs to take. Knows he’s only stalling.

When he throws the lute on his back, he recalls the last time he carried it. If nothing else, at least there’ll be no more looking over his shoulder for a candleless flame, he thinks with grim satisfaction as he roams the halls.

He finds Radovid in the bigger room they set up the makeshift hospital in. Looking around, he tries not to dwell on how such pictures will be everywhere in this war. It seems nobody here has lost any limbs, at least. Although Keira Metz’ legs look broken, and sound it too when Marti straightens them out. Radovid’s face turns green when the crunch echoes throughout the ruin.

“Hey.” Jaskier waves awkwardly. Radovid perks up when he sees him, and it makes things a little better. Which means Jaskier has to put his foot where? “You, uh, still here?”

Radovid looks sheepish. “Well, Philippa did show up earlier, looking for me. I hid.”

Jaskier tries not to laugh. “You hid?”

“I know she’ll be back as soon as she tracks me.” Radovid sighs. “And she’ll be displeased.”

“And Dijkstra. And your brother.” Jaskier has a terrible realization. “And Tomek. Oh, gods. He’s going to hate me even more after this.”

Radovid gives him a funny look. “Tomek doesn’t hate you.”

“You sure?”

“Hmm.” Radovid bites his lip. “I don’t think he could hate anyone I… care about.”

“Ah. Right. Well,” Jaskier stammers. “I do feel a little better, then.” He clears his throat. “I’m not sure if you heard. Yen told me. Rience is dead.”

“Good.” There is naught in Radovid’s voice but his own determination reflected. He takes Jaskier’s hand and lifts it, kisses each scar gently. Jaskier lets out a shuddering breath. He has to press his forehead to Radovid’s and breathe in deeply to settle himself.

They walk to the beach in silence. If they keep their backs to the wreckage and look out into the line of the horizon, it almost feels peaceful. Normal.

Jaskier’s trying to find the words, looking down at their joined hands to make things harder for himself. “I, eh, I need to tell you something.”

“Alright.”

“I’m leaving.” He needs to get it all out in one go or this will just be harder. “Geralt is… Yen and the others have done all they can here. It’s not enough. They think the dryads can help. So we’re off to Brokilon Forest. Then we need to find Ciri, and we don’t even know where she is. So we’re leaving. Today.”

“Okay.”

“Oh. Okay.”

He makes to move away, but Radovid pulls him into a hug. Jaskier is still surprised by how easy it is to fit into his arms.

“I don’t want you to go.”

“Radovid…”

“No, let me finish. I want you to stay in Redania with me. It’s all I’ve ever wanted, even before I met you.” He can feel Radovid’s blush on his own skin. “I know you can’t. Even if this hadn’t happened. It’s impossible. But I still want it. I know that doesn’t make sense.”

No, it doesn’t. “Come with me.” The words come out unbidden, and Jaskier didn’t plan them, but he means them.

Radovid lets out a shaky breath. His whole body trembles, once, and then he moves away.

“Eilhart and Dijkstra would never allow it,” he says, voice strangled. “They would find me and drag me back. And there’s no telling what they would do to you. Or your loved ones.”

As if it takes untold strength, he takes off Jaskier’s ring.

“I can’t keep it.”

But it still feels as if Radovid is keeping something of his, Jaskier thinks with a lump in his throat. He takes the ring back. It’s still warm when he puts it on his finger. “No?”

“Jaskier, I don’t know exactly what happened here, all I know is they were involved, and they moved against your family.” Radovid breathes in deeply. “When I said the palace was not safe, I meant for anybody. Including Cirilla, yes. But me, as well.” He glances down. “Dijkstra threatened me. I must fall in line, or pretend to, at least for the time being. And they want me there. Where they can control me.”

“Where they can use you. Hurt you.” It’s difficult to swallow. “And you expect me to stand aside and accept it?”

“I didn’t want to tell you, and this is exactly why.” Radovid cups his cheek. “I don’t mean to hurt you or make you feel guilty. Just to understand why I cannot go with you.”

Jaskier hates this, hates Dijkstra and Eilhart, hates Redania and its golden palace, hates that there is no safe haven he can provide. “Then what? You are going back into that cage, after everything they’ve done?”

“Yes. If anything, I put myself in their hands.” Radovid sounds somber. “Maybe it’s what I deserve, for being stupid and naïve.”

“I wish you could’ve remained stupid and naïve for longer,” Jaskier blurts out. Radovid chuckles.

“I wish… I don’t know.” The prince is quiet for a moment. “That I were different. That I had met you differently.”

“I can write something about that,” Jaskier says, and can’t even pretend he’s doing so only for Radovid’s benefit.

When Radovid looks up at him, his eyes are glassy. “Would you?”

“Yeah,” Jaskier says when he recovers. “Maybe I’m not getting all my belongings thrown at me from a balcony, for a start.”

“Oh, but I like that part.”

“Of course you do, you get to be the hero who catches the lute.” Jaskier takes a breath. “Maybe you’re not a prince. Or I’m not a bard.”

Radovid smiles sadly. “But I like that part.”

“You’re impossible to please.”

Radovid laughs. The sound of it is cradled by the ocean.

“And when it’s finished,” Jaskier goes on, his voice strangled to his own ears, “maybe I could send it to you.”

“You would write to me?” His heart does that stupid little thing when Radovid perks up, then sinks when his face does. “Eilhart and Dijkstra would intercept any letters.”

Jaskier thinks of how many miles there will be between them tomorrow, once he’s on the road and Radovid back home. The castle on top of the mountain seems so far above him now, he can’t quite believe he’s lived in it. But Radovid is right, and he cannot take the risk. He wants to cry, suddenly. Why do other people get to decide?

Radovid adds, “Anyway, I wouldn’t know where to write to you,” and Jaskier realizes how much more profound Radovid’s estrangement from him feels. At least Jaskier knows where Radovid will be, at least he will be able to picture him roaming the halls, eating honey pastries, reading Jaskier’s book by candlelight in the library. Radovid can only imagine where Jaskier will be.

“Write to me anyway,” he decides, “and give all your letters to me after all of this. And I’ll do the same.”

“You think there’ll be an after?” Radovid asks quietly. “And that we’ll meet each other then?”

“I think I’ll try my damnedest to make it so.” Jaskier barely ends the sentence before getting an armful of Radovid, but he takes it gladly.

“I will,” Radovid says, and the promise brushes his neck. “I’ll write to you.”

Jaskier smiles against his hair. “Just to me?”

“Just to you.” And then Radovid’s lips are pressed on his and Jaskier forgets the world for a while.

“I would like that,” he says when they part, and Radovid smiles brightly.