"That bloody mayor wouldn't know fashion if it hit him in the fucking face. Which it did, and he called it ridiculous. I hate Gulet."

It had been a good hour since they met with said mayor, a spineless prick with clearly terrible sensibilities, but Jaskier finally bursted with his distaste. At first, he tried not to talk about it. He really did. The bard wanted to be a little less petty; it was one of his best qualities for amusement, but worst in getting him in trouble. But Jaskier couldn't stand the juxtaposition of that man's gall and his clothes dyed the perfect shade of piss and shit anymore.

Next to him, the Witcher stopped walking. "How long were you sitting on that?"

Exhaling, Jaskier admitted, "Ever since we left the mayor's office. I just got distracted by all your supply shopping. Monster hunting provisions are fascinating."

Without missing a beat, The Witcher stopped looking at him, started walking, and said, "Strange man, you are."

"As I've been called much worse, I'll take it as a compliment." Honestly, Jaskier was just happy he seemed to take his commentary in stride. He hated to admit it, but most people were tired by now. He was the kind of person people liked to see at parties, charming and sexy, but wanted to flay if he stayed til the morning. The only exceptions were people entranced by his abilities or prowess in bed.

Geralt had lasted several days now, without song or sex to ply him. It was pretty impressive.

Grunting, the Witcher said, "You seem to take everything as a compliment."

"Better way to live my life than be a crotchety old man." When Jaskier looked to Geralt, he was glaring. He wasn't quite sure why until he realized that, as far as Geralt understood, he was the only old man around.

Oh great, just as the banter was getting slightly amicable, he had to accidentally piss the Witcher off. And what was he to say now? Just kidding, pal, I actually meant me, a secretly centuries old geezer?

That would be a completely different mess.

Coughing, Jaskier just tried to change the subject. "Now, before we enter this place, no tiresome needling on both sides? Can we call a truce?" Already at the miller's house, he didn't want another "lying about each other" fiasco. Amusing as it was, it could turn sinister very fast. And by that he meant he was a bitter, petty bitch and he didn't need to vindictively start a revenge war with a Witcher.

Jaskier had enough rivals, by profession and personality alone. He didn't need an actually threatening one.

With a tossed passive aggressive glance, full of furrowed brows and scowling, Geralt replied, "How about you shut up and I ask questions."

"As long as you never talk about my life-debt again, perfectly fine with me."

When Geralt knocked on the door, the answer didn't take long. Within seconds, an aging man with flour-specked clothes opened the door. It was even like his hair was in on the style, because it was a chocolate brown peppered with white-gray strands. One look at him and anyone could tell he was the miller or baker. And all it took was one whiff, devoid of any fresh goods, to deduce from there.

The man had a nice smile, though. Crooked lips with crooked teeth, but a warmth to it that most people never bothered with, when it came to smiling at strangers. Jaskier couldn't help but smile back.

Seeing the Witcher next to Jaskier, though, the wide smile faltered a bit. He couldn't really blame the man. "H-how can I help you?"

"We're here to ask about your daughter."

And that smile faded, like the sun falling behind the mountains on a winter's day. The land beneath them went frigid. "Ah. Yes." Swallowing a deep breath like he had to remind himself, the miller asked, "The mayor finally hire someone to take care of my Emily, is it?"

The Witcher was simple in his answer, but his intonation was surprisingly sympathetic. "Yes."

"They left her alone far longer than I expected, to be honest." Those once-wide lips, smiling like the sun, were small and flat. Jaskier was excited about some adventure and monsters, but just looking at this guy was starting to swallow all his excited butterflies whole. "She's not quite... herself anymore."

He didn't mean to snort, he really didn't. But he did, and to add insult to injury, said, "That's an understatement."

Both men did not look at him with kind eyes.

Sighing, Geralt turned back to the miller. "Why did she turn into a wraith?"

"This local boy, Derry, was her sweetheart. They planned to marry. I even was teaching him the family business. But then this handsome young man moved to town, Ariel. Emily and Derry befriended him; they were friendly folk. A few weeks ago, though, Ariel and Derry ran off to who knows fucking where and Emily was left behind." Heated by the last few things he said, the miller swallowed air like if he didn't, he'd stop breathing entirely. Jaskier didn't know why, but he could feel a pang in his chest, an old, ancient ache, at watching this father struggle to mourn. The miller added, "She was my only child, my Emily. But a few nights after they left, she went out to the woods and didn't come back. Then the wraith started showing up. It's safe to say she's not alive, out there."

Again with the surprising sympathy, Geralt nodded and said, "I'm sorry. But if we could look through her things, we can put your Emily to rest."

Nodding, the miller stepped back from the door, gesturing for them to enter. It was a small hovel, the stove shoved inches from a bed, making way for a table too large for one man. Four sets of boots sat by the hearth, varying in size. They didn't look like they'd been worn in a long time. But despite its size and ghosts it was homey, filled with little twig creatures and candles and whispers of memories.

Jaskier only wished that for this poor man those lovely things were alive, not echoes.

Pointing to the uneven steps on the far side of the room, he said, "Emily's room was upstairs. Feel free to look."

They both tipped their heads to him and walked up the slightly unnerving wooden stairs. Jaskier was half convinced Geralt's weight would fall through them and their hunt would evolve into a rescue mission. But, luckily, they got to the top landing with no trouble.

The only door was on the left. Opening it, Geralt kept this stoic, stern thing going on with his face. Jaskier, on the other hand, was immediately delighted. After all, the first thing they saw in her room was a lute. "Ah, a girl of good taste!"

"Her fiance ran off with a stranger. Obviously not."

Jaskier winced. "I felt that one in my gut and it wasn't even about me. Quite brutal of you, Geralt." As he touched the lute, Geralt growled.

"We're here to look for clues of where she was killed, not play around with a dead girl's things. Pull yourself together."

Pulling his hand from the lute, he swallowed, reminding himself to act as he should, not as he felt. Sometimes Jaskier forgot how much people honored the possessions of the dead. To him, everything was a possession of people long dead, so sentimentality didn't much play into it.

But not everybody had lived long enough for that to become their opinion.

He played it off, all puff-cheeked and haughty. "Oh, fine." While Geralt very briefly touched various objects and breathed them in like they were scented candles (which was fucking weird, to say the least), Jaskier found a little notebook on her bedside table. Like the shameless man he was, he opened it and was delighted to find it was her personal journal.

Skimming a few pages, most of it was tame. Spats with local girls, the first time she and Derry made love, what she wanted to name their children.

But about six weeks ago, things got wild. Jaskier's eyes practically bugged out of his skull while he read it.

With a click of his tongue, Jaskier said, "Oh my, this girl's diary is absolutely juicy."

Geralt stopped huffing the young girl's personal belongings (thank god) and was by his side in two unsettling large strides. "Hmm?"

"Apparently, she and Derry weren't just friends with this Ariel; they were all lovers. If I remember correctly, I've done that kind of thing before. It's pretty hot." Jaskier was a little concerned he couldn't quite remember who, when, or where, but he shook his head and carried on, "She also was with child, and waiting to tell Derry on his birthday. But on said birthday, he disappeared into thin air." That's quite the exciting young rebellion. For all he dreaded about his younger self, he did hope he was an absolutely fascinating scoundrel. But just as he was about to continue on, he remembered he probably should add, "Oh, and Ariel was a vampire."

"That last part seems a little important."

"Shhh, a little vampirism isn't that big of a deal." Realizing he was showing a possible clue to his age and mortality status, Jaskier just tried to play up the scoundrel part. He added his best, salacious wink. "Well, I suppose it is to some people."

Meanwhile, Geralt did not look amused and instead just kept scowling.

Guess he didn't need to make a big production of that. Made that kind of embarrassing.

Waving his hand at the Witcher, Jaskier said, "Don't slut-shame me, Geralt. I am a grown man who does what he wants. Especially when it comes to matters of my own bed." Flipping to the last written note in the little journal, from a little under two weeks ago, Jaskier relayed Emily's final words: "Her last entry says she was going to look for Ariel and Derry by the "old willow". Said it was where they all met up for... dates."

"Good. Hope there's a body."

After he put down the journal, Jaskier scrunched up his face at the Witcher. "Ew?"

He didn't get an answer, though, because the damned man was already racing his ass down the stairs. Jaskier wasn't exactly short or lacked agility, but the Witcher was something else.

Jaskier barely got to say goodbye to the sweet, sad miller before he had to start jogging to catch up to Geralt. And considering he hadn't jogged in 70 years, he wasn't exactly happy about it. Puffing air, Jaskier grabbed Geralt's shoulder to stop him. "What's with the race?"

"The scent is faint. If we want to find that willow tree, we need to move fast." As he started walking, picking up the pace all over again, Geralt, clarified, "We need her bones to banish her."

"Oh." Back to jogging, Jaskier mentally apologized to his poor legs and promised them the sweetest of baths next chance they got. Sarcastic and a little cranky, since he was once pretty excited to do absolutely zero work during these adventures, he said, "Well, I can't wait to see rotting flesh. That's my favorite."

"Gross."

Jaskier was ready to throttle the Witcher. Running, making him look and sound like a fool, what was next? Actually making him fight monsters? Three days with an attractive mutant sword-master and his entire perception of himself was getting thrown out the goddamn window.

He drew the line at giving up music, though. That would be cause for a swift and immediate break up.

Groaning, Jaskier huffed, "I was kidding! Who knew Witchers struggled with humor?" He was a little annoyed he was hitting a stride, getting more comfortable with running. Damn his old years of athleticism and the agelessness of his body. Now he had to fake some discomfort later. With a raised eyebrow, he watched the forest floor for tree knots and made sure to trip over at least one. After a good, awful knee-knocking, he accepted that he looked properly pathetic. So, Jaskier got to asking, "Who likes the undead, anyway?"

"Considering you've had sex with vampires..."

"That's different and you know it." Just then, another memory of skimming her diary came back to him. After a particularly far-too-detailed entry of boring sex talk, Emily said something a bit problemtatic. "Oh, also she wasn't sure if the baby was Ariel's or Derry's."

Geralt stopped dead and whacked Jaskier in the forehead. The force was enough to almost knock the bard to the ground, which would have been very fucking annoying for his handsome pants. Growling, the Witcher said, "Thanks for almost forgetting to mention that. That's important. Might be why the vampire wanted her gone." Now just at a walking pace, Geralt was pointing his nose every which way and doing weird sniffs. It was like he was a hungry dog. Jaskier had to admit, this was one part of Witcher-dom that might take some time to adjust to. "Next time, you're not allowed to read the diary."

"That implies a next time and I am already titillated by the thought." Brushing a tree, a spiderweb tangled on Jaskier's sleeve. Fantastic. That's disgusting.

With a frown, he used the very tips of his fingers to remove it and toss the damn thing to the ground. Jaskier said, "I'd joke about wanting a mission more glamorous, but I doubt with that perfected groan that glamorous is in your lifestyle vocabulary." Chuckling to himself, he pictured a princely Geralt, dressed up with perfumes and puffed sleeves and a cute little flower crown. "Maybe one day I'll doll you up and take you to a party."

"Now you're actually trying to torment me."

"Not a fan of the pomp and circumstance of nobility? I thought maybe you'd surprise me and like to clean up nice at the rare soiree. Charm a few pretty ladies. Beat a man over the head with your wits, not your sword."

Even though Geralt couldn't take a single second to look at him, he did still keep answering. "What was it you said? About projecting?"

"Fair." Climbing over a tree log, careful not to step in a whole pile of worms, Jaskier countered, "But what if-"

Geralt interrupted him, a hand in his way, palm pressed against his chest. "Fuck. And there's the body."

Jaskier ignored how intrigued he was by the Witcher's fingers splayed across his ribcage. It was easy to do, with a dead body a few feet away. Under a giant willow tree, there was a young woman in a tattered dress, her skin tight to her bones. Chocolate brown hair turned stiff straws, and her body so hollow and cage-like, his own breath was trapped in his chest.

He could barely process what they saw before them, but Geralt was already walking forward. "The wraith will probably show up soon. Stay away. Be careful." After an aggravated growl, he said, "The things immortals do to the mortals they say they love."

Jaskier meant to stay away. He had absolutely no intention of walking anywhere near that damned willow tree, where a vampire used love to kill. But hearing those words, they started to echo in his head, like they reminded him of a quote from a story he once loved. They rattled and made his brain feel absolutely insane, until it came to him.

Picturing a man with a thin face, this thick black hair and trimmed beard, and the most stunning hazel eyes, similar words were coming out of his mouth, "The things a mortal does for love."

And then, clear as day, he could see that same man bloody, beaten, and mangled under the tree.

Unable to control himself, Jaskier started walking towards the form. This man, handsome and foolish, was important to him once. He could feel it, remember what it was like to stroke his beard, to capture a course strand in between his fingertips and make the other man laugh.

He couldn't even fucking remember his name, but he was important.

Maybe he was the one that got him here.

Just as Jaskier leaned down to touch the mangled man, Geralt yelled, "Jaskier!"

Startled out of his trance, the bard looked up to see a spectral figure staring down at him. The face was covered in a gray shroud, like it was an unholy veil, and worse, he almost swore he could see a way too wide, toothy grin hiding under the deepest fabric.

If it wasn't for the malice behind it, he could see the miller's smile in his daughter.

Geralt came at the wraith with a running start, with some sort of Witcher sign and salts prepared. While the trap worked well and the powder did droop her down a few inches, she still managed to knock the Witcher back and the sword out of his hand.

Leaving Jaskier trapped here, in the circle with her.

He was tempted to use magic, but for the life of him he couldn't remember any spells. So, instead, he hoped that swordsmanship was like jogging.

Picking up Geralt's sword, only inches from his fingertips, also coated in some sort of oil that would make her weak, Jaskier stood and faced her. He twirled the sword in his hand until it felt right and, just as she was ready to strike, he slashed in the form of a Z, cutting through her legs, torso, and head.

Much to his hope (and an ample amount of surprise) the wraith shrieked and disappeared into dust.

Jaskier was breathing heavier than he had in years; he also felt more alive than ever.

Despite the fact his brain wanted to go back to that dark-haired man, a mystery lost to him, Geralt was soon up and running to his side. He had the most bewildered look on his face, saying, "What was that?"

With an uncomfortable, pitchy laugh, Jaskier handed the sword back and said, "Me not dying?"

Geralt sheathed his silver blade, back to where it belonged. Good. Jaskier really didn't want to do that again anytime soon. It wasn't who he was trying to be. "You used a sword. And you didn't stab yourself or pull something. Most people pull something."

While there were centuries of explanations behind what happened, Jaskier chose a simpler truth: "I said I was a man of many talents."

"You're a bard."

Where his insides were panicking, the best balm for his overwhelmed brain was to fall back into being effortless, charismatic Jaskier. "A Bard who just did your job, if I say so myself."

"A Bard who almost got himself killed by being an idiot."

Swallowing, remembering the wraith's breath (or ether) falling on his face, he admitted, "Not false, but I'm choosing to look at the positives here."

"Don't get in the way and you don't need a sword."

Jaskier's smile was big. His voice was chipper. He had to be so cute and so annoying and so sure of himself because everything else inside him was very, very wrong. Jaskier couldn't stop picturing the long-faced man, now able to remember these dimples in his cheeks that only felt all the more haunting.

Geralt couldn't know about the man. Hell, he shouldn't even know about him. No matter how compelled he felt to remember.

Instead, Jaskier shrugged and stepped a few paces from the body, hands of his hips. "Hmm, I think I'll just take the win. "The Bard Who Saved The White Wolf" sounds like a great title to a song, doesn't it?" Geralt did his grumble-groan thing, and it sated him. If he could fool the Witcher to think him a happy-go-lucky idiot, he could fool himself. Jaskier smirked, "It's perfect, I knew it."

Pulling out a bag, Geralt gathered the body. Jaskier noticed that, despite his gruff nature, he was quite gentle with what was left of the young girl in love. "Let's just bury these. Properly. Get the job done."

Jaskier just nodded and followed him.

Halfway back, Jaskier was still wrestling with his flashback of a mangled man and the persona he had going. Did this mean his memories weren't really lost to him? Would more of them come back if he spent more time with the Witcher? Out of desperation, Jaskier said, "You know, this future song could be a hit all the way from Kaedwen to Cintra."

"I don't go to Cintra."

"Ominous. Why not?"

"None of your business."

Scoffing, Jaskier asked, "Not even for the foolish man that saved his own life?"

Even though Geralt always looked annoyed with him, this time he also got this adorable little smirk. Maybe the bard was finally making some dents in this man's impenetrable grump. "Not even for a surprising fool."

They talked some more on the walk, but Jaskier was barely aware of it. He felt like he was stuck outside of his body, watching himself chatter on next to this white-haired mystery of a man. If there ever was a reason to leave him, this mission just gave him a perfect one. Remembering his past was a dangerous road to go down, especially after so many years of forgetting.

But when they took Emily back to her father, and Geralt prioritized helping him bury her over getting the payment that night, Jaskier couldn't help but float back into his body and smile stupidly at this man who insisted he wasn't a hero.

Adventuring with him was dangerous in every way, but Jaskier couldn't help but feel like it had to be worth it. It definitely wasn't a good idea, and definitely could ruin him. But Jaskier didn't give a damn.

On their walk back to town, Jaskier looked up into those perceptive and perpetually annoyed yellow eyes and asked, "So, where to next?"

/

Learning tidbits about Jaskier is so hecking fun. Also he might... *gasp* slightly enjoy the Witcher's company? Heresy.

Anyway, having a blast with this one. Hope y'all are too.

Thanks as always to my fantabulous patrons:

Danyell Jones

Amy Connolly

See y'all Saturday!