While Jaskier would've assumed they'd wait until morning to confront the little fire starter, Geralt just kept stomping down the street. That was the least of the bard's concerns, though. If anything, he felt more trepidation about facing anything mage-like after his Mlecz slip-up.

It didn't spell anything good for his mindset right now.

Sputtering, he asked, "Should we really be chasing down a child in the dark? That won't look good, trust me."

Geralt was having none of his thinly veiled jokes wrapped in real concern. "I have her scent."

"Please never say that again, you're going to get a bounty on our heads just for sounding like a complete and utter pervert."

"Stop distracting." Geralt sniffed the air, and Jaskier almost vomited. He knew the olfactory hunting was a Witcher staple, but after their conversation? It absolutely felt off the table. The Witcher rattled his brain even more by saying, "Also, she isn't a witch. She's a mage. Witches are different. Mostly very old."

As an easily offended bard, Jaskier just started blinking at him.

Of all the things for Geralt to say...

Jaskier's eyes almost rolled out of his head. He knew the difference between a fucking witch and a sorcerer. "I know you think me an idiot, but I do know that. I just don't like them. And more sorcerers are evil hags than you give them credit. But I'm sure the big bouncy tits make that quite forgettable."

When Geralt looked at him, his eyebrows were pinching together like if they could touch, it could bridge the gap between what he knew and the convicted snark Jaskier said. But the bard just wished he wasn't falling down these holes of being such a serious, non-bard tonight.

And what a thing, to now be tracking down a witch.

Pinching his nose, Geralt said, "That's not-" The Witcher stopped mid-sentence, and also stopped walking. They were in front of a small home with a single candle in the window. He growled, "We're here."

For once, Jaskier was very happy for the distraction.

In a few long strides, Geralt stood up to the door, hulking, and knocked. What a fucking sight that'd be for the person who unlatched and opened their house at this hour.

Idiot Witcher. Jaskier squeezed in front of him, moved him slightly to the side, so a less bulky, less intimidating bard with a smile was greeting them. Granted, he wasn't sure how much he could smile if he saw that cornflower-haired little monster.

Instead, he saw the same black eyes and flaxen hair centered by wrinkles and what seemed like a permanent liar's grin. However, the older woman did have some flour flecking her cheeks, just like Gulet's miller. But the miller was soft and gentle, where she looked ready to knead anyone's face like it was a pesky handful of dough. Though he met her earlier, bitching about a window peeper, this baker wasn't the sugary-sweet kind that one expected, at her core. A sour fucking tart, at best.

He had to commend her commitment to the fake smile, though.

If he was a betting man, she knew exactly what kind of chaos she was hiding behind her door.

Trying to hide a more low-born accent with a fake high-born one, creating a tragic mish-mosh of the two, the woman said, "Why hello strangers! What brings you to our little hovel this late in the evening? Would you like to-" Yeah, he was over playing nice. Stepping back from the doorway, he pushed Geralt up to the front. Her near-audible swallow was the most satisfying thing he'd experienced in days. "I-I think it's best you stay outside."

Geralt crossed his arms. "Do you know your daughter is a mage?"

"My little Iskra is nothing of the sort."

As if she lived to defy everyone, including her mother, he noticed the tiny blonde murderer touching the candlelight and using her fingers to shoot little flame beams at him through the window. Scowling, Jaskier asked, "Then can you explain why your little demon child is menacingly sparking her fingers at me?"

"For f-" Glancing at the glass panes, her fake smile completely caved in, a pretty little landslide that fell all the way down her face. Her play-acting dead, she crossed her arms and glared up at them. "Okay, fine, Iskra has powers. But she ain't hurting anyone."

Jaskier shook his head, thinking of that tortured frog or the dead men or Darien. And especially that creepy little smirk the pint-sized fire hazard had going on. He countered, "Also false."

"Someone's been setting houses ablaze," Geralt explained, like this was all still business-like and not a dueling stand-off between a Witcher, bard, and a frowning woman with a budding fire mage for a daughter/guard dog.

She rolled her eyes. "We all have matches and candles, don't we? It could be anyone."

Even though Jaskier was annoyed too, he did really enjoy hearing Geralt constantly growl at this woman. "Not mage fire."

"Does it matter when the monsters are vagrants and bloody vampire stock?" Geralt's arms flexed and she got this bizarre, confident smile. She did realize she was still talking to a Witcher, right? The kind that could snap her in half? "Ah, thought a lowly peasant wouldn't know? Vampires are a blight to the Continent. If my Iskra is taking them out, I'd say that makes her an upstanding citizen."

On behalf of every decent or at least morally gray bloodsucker he'd ever meant, Jaskier put his hands on his hips. "Have you ever even met a vampire?"

She didn't acknowledge him. Her gaze waze still fixed, full-smirk, up at Geralt.

Well, he already thought she was a bitch, but that was unnecessary.

"Vampires have killed many more, taking poor young ladies and lads all across Aedirn. The whispers have been going around for months. What is it to you if we take some back?"

Jaskier, knowing Darien wouldn't appreciate being "taken back", didn't appreciate her outlook. People really liked to play fast and loose with casual murder, didn't they? "What the actual fuck."

"Don't take justice into your own hands," Geralt said. "Especially not the hands of your daughter."

"Iskra just saw monsters and wanted to protect the people she loved. Nothing wrong with that."

It took everything in Jaskier to not set this bitch on fire himself.

Normally he tried to soften Geralt, but fuck it. He was letting him completely obliterate her. She fucking deserved it.

If Jaskier could snarl the way Geralt did, he would get kidnapped in alleyways less.

Or have a much kinkier sex life.

... That was an inappropriately timed thought.

But her knobby elbows and perfect little tiny nose were still upturned, like she had anything to be proud of. He hoped Geralt made her feel every second of his verbal thrashings.

And if Geralt didn't do well enough? He had some tricks up his own sleeve.

Doing said snarling, Geralt told her, "She's a child."

"She has a gift. Is it so wrong to use it?"

"It isn't yours to weaponize." Geralt flicked his eyes to the imp still shooting fire at them. What was wrong with this fucking kid? Or better question, what the hell had her mother done to her? Children weren't born monsters. "Send her to Aretuza for proper training yourself or I'll make sure people know what she's done."

"You wouldn't dare-"

Stepping forward, Geralt gritted his teeth. "Try me."

With every articulation of the word, that unfounded confidence slid off her face.

This time when Jaskier glanced at Iskra, the little girl looked less malicious and instead, she was tucking her face below the window-sill. It's like the second her mother faltered, so did she. "You... You cannot do that to my Iskra! Not over fucking vampires!"

The longer the conversation went, the more Jaskier realized that her body language wasn't just about being defensive. It was also the way she looked at Geralt, like the vampires weren't the only monsters.

Where everything else about her pissed him off, this sent a spear through his guts and pulled his intestines out the other side. He could see the hatred for vampires; even the intelligent ones had a culture of disregarding human life. Darien was more the exception than the rule. But Geralt? How could anyone make a villain out of a man who talked to his horse on a regular basis?

Those were jokes, sure. But he'd seen many eviler things over the years. And not to be so dramatic it would make someone ill, but that did include his own reflection.

Geralt took her reaction to him with a much more even keel. "No matter what they were, I still wouldn't use a child to get vengeance."

"She's a hero."

"Don't back off and you'll make her a martyr."

Dark eyes wide, fist clenching, this small little asshole of a woman dared to poke her finger into Geralt's chest. Internally, Jaskier kind of hoped Geralt would break it off for her. "I won't apologize for teaching my daughter who deserves her love and who deserves her hate. Vampires have been gobbling folks for centuries. Her own father was ravaged by a bruxa. It's my daughter's birthright to burn them."

Without giving them another attempt of a saving glance, Geralt's pity and pleas extinguished. He backed away from her and said, "It seems you've made your choice."

The Witcher went straight from her home to the guards trying to extinguish the burning inferno that used to be Darien's house.

Geralt said, "If you want your murderer, look to the baker's home. There's a child mage there who likes to start fires and a shit mother that egged her on."

And then he walked away from them, like that's all they needed. Poor blokes looked like they had a million questions, but they sent the runt of their sorry litter to go check it out.

Once they were a few houses away from the whole debacle, Jaskier looked up to Geralt. His jaw was clenched, his brow was stern. Everything about him screamed overwhelmed and underappreciated.

Where it was widely known people didn't like Witchers all that well, for their gruffness and big pointy sticks, he had to wonder if that stuff wore on him. Not that Geralt would ever admit to it, but his brooding, big, bad wolf now had a history of hurt lined up behind him.

Perhaps, despite being a bard and a Witcher, they had more in common than Jaskier was normally humble enough to admit.

Sticking his nose where it didn't belong, per usual, Jaskier said, "Geralt, I think you-"

Almost like he was expecting it, Geralt growled. "Don't." He nodded towards the inn, only a few feet away. "Go. I'll be back later."

He didn't know how to respond. And it wouldn't matter if he did, because Geralt was on Roach and off to do who knows fucking what before he even could've opened his mouth. Not unless he started cramming words together like they were idiots in a far-too-short queue.

So, he walked inside, alone.

At first, Jaskier wanted to wait for him. But when the hours grew long and his head started to get heavy, he figured there wasn't much he could do. It's not like Geralt was going to give him a cookie for waiting up. If anything, he'd grumble at him, call him an idiot, and then go to bed like he never mattered.

That was not a conversation worth waiting hours for.

Instead, he laid his head on his lumpy pillow, cuddled into his surprisingly decent blanket, and shut his eyes, hoping for a reset from this confusing, haunting day.

However, his dreams didn't have much kindness for him, either.

In the foggy meadows of his mind, a figure emerged. The one he didn't remember, but couldn't get out of his head. If he wasn't a memory-blocked fool, Jaskier would say he was the kind of man he'd never forget. It wasn't like he was some chiseled block of man meat, but he had this gentleness wrapped in a lithe tactician, who knew enough to fight but was built even better to lead. He held himself like he was always ready to give some speech somewhere to make someone feel inspired. When Jaskier looked straight into his eyes, the color of the forest floor meeting the lush treetops, he felt sure of himself in a way he never did at any other point in his life, and he'd lived many.

And when that handsome man looked back? The grin hiding within his trimmed beard was breathtaking. "Hello, love."

"You." Coming close, Jaskier brushed his hand against the man's cheek. It felt like something he used to do. "Who are you?" Then, both of Jaskier's hands cupped his face. The bard was trying to scan every inch, those hard to see dimples, the scar in his eyebrow, anything to trigger his memory. But it all felt as dense as the fog at their feet. And worse, though he didn't understand why, he started to cry. Not in the heartfelt, handsome way, but the kind that swept through his chest and made Jaskier feel like he was a sponge being squeezed.

All because he was looking at him. "Why do I feel so much, just seeing you?"

"You've always been handsome, even when you cry." The man was even a good romantic liar, it seemed. Though Jaskier couldn't help but feel that he wasn't. Lying, that is. "Don't cry for me, little bird. I made my choice." He brushed the tears off Jaskier's face and laughed. "The things a mortal does for love."

"No no no, don't say. I know what that leads to. Stay with me. Tell me what we were, what happened-"

"Just live for me, love." Then, the man pressed his lips against his. They were soft, and as he melted into his arms, it was like he was finally getting somewhere, seeing something. A modest but beautiful room, with woven red blankets and the view of a forest turning into a field. And in a life of darkness, it felt like this man was a grasp at the sun, and if he could just pull him tighter-

But just as Jaskier reached for his waist, it was gone. Instead, the bard's eyes opened and the unforgettable man was a few feet from him, again mangled and dead and wrong. His left eye was gone and there were maggots and-

Jaskier didn't know he was screaming until his ears were ringing.

This nightmare wasn't kind, though, because his screams weren't enough. In a quick trick of movement, people started to appear before him, one by one, in a neat, haunting circle. There was a smorgasbord of auburn, white-blonde, forest brown hairs, different dazzling blue eyes, mixed with ice or dirt or seafoam. And while none of them spoke, they all seemed to be staring at him, hating him, loving him, searing their disappointment and betrayal into his very bones.

The worst part of it, though, was that he couldn't recognize a single one of them.

He walked up to the closest one, a woman with auburn ringlets and a vacant smile, and touched her shoulder. Jaskier wanted to ask her for the truth, hope maybe that one of these ghosts could tell him something for once, but instead-

Instead the second his fingers brushed her skin, she burst into flames. In his horror, the fire kept spreading from person to person, swallowing them whole. In all his years, he'd never been so afraid of fire. But now, watching it engulf people he'd lost, he felt like the pain searing through his chest was not new.

And that terrified him, more than discovering who he was.

What the fuck had he done?

When everyone was gone, the only thing left was a burning figure of a man, his exact height and build. Jaskier didn't need much else to figure that one out. Laughing at him, in his own sickly sweet, charismatic bard way, the inflamed Doppler said, "You're going to burn your Witcher, too, you know." And the laugh kept going, growing more erratic and maniacal with each breath. "It's hilarious, really. Pretending to be Jaskier the bard, the helpless. When in a flick of your wrist you could repeat history all over again."

Where all of this existed to taunt him, hurt him, feed into his worst insecurities and fears, all Jaskier could say was, "What do you know about me?"

An empty void of a smile forming in the middle of his face, Jaskier never wanted to hear this abomination talk again. Because it was shameless, even reverent, in saying things he'd never admit, things he wished weren't true. "I know that witches do terrible things to those they love."

/

Jaskier's not having a great day ...Like, a pretty bad one Guess we'll see how this conversation with a much darker version with himself goes 0_0 Anyway, thanks as always for reading and double thanks to my super-neat patrons!: Danyell Jones Amy Connolly See you guys Saturday to see how our bb bard does

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