Julian was very young when he first learned the power of music. He was being carried through the marketplace, looking around at the bright colours, when the faint strains of music reached his ears. It shocked him into silence—causing his carrier to give a sigh of relief at the reprieve from his constant babbling. He stared in the direction of the music and tried to grab it from the air.
There were notes swimming around him, floating above and below and through him. They shined and glistened, thrumming with power, spirit, and energy. Young Julian wailed when he was taken away from the music and forced his way out of the hands holding him. He crawled, toddled, and dragged himself along the dirt to follow the music. Nothing mattered more to him than seeing the origins of the wonderful sounds and knowing what had caused them.
The bard playing noticed him and frowned but continued playing. Children were easily lost in cities—some of them were searched for, others not. Julian watched the bard and the music surrounding her until a frantic caregiver finally found him and scooped him up, carrying him away without care of his cries or attempts to get back to the bard.
From that moment, there was no stopping Julian's search for music. He would bang his hands on anything to make sound, he would wail in the tunes he heard, he would make his way to the closest person he could hear who was humming to themselves. But he loved the bards the best. If he was in the marketplace, he would find a way to escape whoever he was with and end up in front of a bard. Eventually, the bards got to know him and started to teach him a few things when they took their infrequent and small breaks. He was called Jaskier by the bards; their little Jaskier, the fledgling bard that wove magic with music.
Julian liked being Jaskier far more than he liked being Julian. Yes, Julian was surrounded by the glamour and wealth of nobility but Jaskier, Jaskier was allowed the freedom of music and could make a legacy all by himself. And so, when he was in his early twenties, he left behind the life of Julian Alfred Pankratz and became simply Jaskier, bard.
He learned at Oxenfurt all he could and stayed to teach until the music pulled him away to learn more. The world of music could not be learned at one school or in one location. He had to travel, to find inspiration and stories that needed to be told. He needed to learn from masters that had never heard of Oxenfurt and students that had never been told they couldn't do something.
He travelled for years, finding new things to learn and building his repertoire of knowledge. He was not a well-known bard, but that didn't matter too much to him. He was not even all that well liked of a bard but of those crowds that threw food his way, they tended to at least throw food that was edible. It never occurred to him that the times he was pelted with food were the times he needed it.
It never occurred to him that he encountered Geralt of Rivia when he felt he was truly ready to make a name for himself—for Jaskier the bard instead of Julian Alfred Pankratz, noble who had vanished a long time ago to pursue a foolish dream.
Geralt was practically glowing in music and Jaskier only waited a few minutes before falling in love with him. Here was a man steeped in potential, someone who could teach Jaskier so much about music without even knowing he was doing so. And, oh, Geralt delivered on the agreement Jaskier had formed between them.
If Jaskier had thought he knew the world of music before, he was sorely mistaken when he was gifted the ownership of an elven lute. There was more to see, to experience, to write than he had ever thought. He followed Geralt endlessly, creating music and making his own mark on the world with a single song. But he couldn't spend all his time following one man, could he?
Even though he loved Geralt, or the fact that Geralt provided the most wonderous music even when Jaskier wasn't playing, there was surely more to be seen and told than one man's story. By now, he didn't even know how long he had been accompanying the Witcher on his travels; sometimes it felt like decades had passed and sometimes merely a few days. But there were always more stories to tell and Jaskier felt that perhaps there were other people who needed their stories told.
So they parted. Geralt went off to hunt more monsters and Jaskier went in search of music. For a time, everything was fine. He carried with him the memories of Geralt, he made his way through the mass of material those memories gave him and made more music. And then he ran out. It was only then that he realised he had been travelling as far and wide as he had when with Geralt but he had not seen anything that glimmered with that specific sound that made his fingers twitch for his lute or his mind to spin out a dozen possibilities for lyrics. There were stories aplenty, but none that screamed at him to tell them.
He found himself writing of the times with Geralt wistfully, remembering the feeling of knowing the music was right and the story shared. He found himself humming softly as he strummed his lute. He found himself crooning in a corner of a tavern instead of bounding in front of a crowd that cheered for him (and sometimes still threw food, but Jaskier was never going to turn down free food).
When he was called to Cintra to perform at a banquet, he sought out Geralt—both so the Witcher could act as a bodyguard and prevent any upset husbands causing grievous harm to his rather lovely person, and so that he might regain some of the vigour he had held before parting ways. Geralt was like the sun and Jaskier was helpless in his desire to bask in the warmth the Witcher exuded. He had been wandering through winter for far too long, he decided, when he was once again in Geralt's presence.
His decision mattered little to Geralt who vanished from Cintra after he had claimed the Law of Surprise and Pavetta had learned she was with child—a child that Destiny said belonged to Geralt. Jaskier watched him go and didn't follow; he had a court to ingratiate himself into so that he might be allowed back again to check on Geralt's Child Surprise.
But even in the courts, he found himself falling more into melancholy. Cintra reminded him of Julian and pulled him away from his chosen self of Jaskier. Jaskier knew too much about nobility and the ways of court to be a simple bard. Julian had long ago been discarded but his knowledge and memories had not.
It took a plague of senseless deaths sweeping over Cintra (with not a Witcher in sight) and a tsunami of Julian threatening to destroy everything Jaskier had built with long ago memories for Jaskier to depart the capital. The only light of those days was the young Cirilla. Cirilla reverberated with music in much the same way as Geralt and Jaskier adored creating songs for the princess. But when she wasn't in the same room as him, the effect swiftly faded and he was left pining for the road and the tales he could surely find.
The third person that inspired such vigour and life into him and his music was the incredibly sexy and entirely terrifying sorceress that he woke up to find glaring at him after he had encountered Geralt by a river. Apparently the djinn Geralt had fished up did not appreciate being called upon by a mere bard and had lashed out at him; Geralt had carried Jaskier to this sorceress and she had saved his life (and his throat).
Even the music sparking around the witch did not sooth his anxiety any. It was discordant and clashing (rather wonderfully, he did have to admit) with the music he so often saw around Geralt and even in his own work. He had no desire to stay in her presence for longer than necessary and was quite willing to leave her to her own devices. But Geralt wasn't. Because the witch had saved Jaskier's life and Geralt was an idiot who ran towards danger while Jaskier was the even greater idiot for following him into that danger for a bit of music.
He knew though, that he was slightly more delicate than Geralt and that going into a localised tornado was likely not a very good idea for him. Still, when he saw the tornado Geralt and the extremely sexy witch were creating with their bodies, he found it rather difficult to resist running into that one. The discordant clashes of the witch's music twirled beautifully with Geralt's music and created a wonderful harmony that had him itching to compose. They were perfect as they were but he couldn't help but feel as though there was room for a melody. What was a harmony without a melody, after all?
Somehow, after climbing a mountain to kill a dragon because Geralt couldn't say no to Yennefer's presence, Jaskier ended up travelling with Yennefer instead of Geralt. He still thought that Yennefer was absolutely terrifying but then, many people thought the same about Geralt and Jaskier had survived travelling with him. Besides, Yennefer seemed to tolerate Jaskier as much as Geralt had when Jaskier had first latched onto him, he could wear her down. And hopefully she wouldn't send him packing while raging at Destiny at the top of a mountain.
Even after the dragon, Jaskier would still occasionally stumble across Geralt. Sometimes he was travelling with Yennefer and sometimes he had left of his own accord to search out new things and not at all because he'd been ordered away from the witch for a while so she could do secret witch-y things. Geralt never apologised in so many words. What he did instead was get incredibly protective of Jaskier and order the bard away whenever a contract seemed even slightly dangerous—not that Jaskier obeyed the orders, to the annoyance of Geralt.
Jaskier's life turned into short spans of time where he travelled by himself before running into either Geralt or Yennefer and accompanying them until splitting apart once again. The times he truly loved were those when he had both of them by his side. Two people he loved dearly who were both terrifying in their own rights but also endearing.
He was travelling with Yennefer currently while Geralt sorted out a drowner problem to the East. They were heading to one of the Northern Kingdoms—Jaskier hadn't bothered asking which one, each court was the same no matter where it was located on a map. Yennefer went to more courts than Geralt—and she certainly acted more courtly while there—so he had grown used to being near the nobles and successfully pushed down all thoughts of the man he had once been. Even so, Jaskier couldn't help but feel a little smug when Yennefer allowed her surprise of his courtly knowledge that went far beyond that of a simple bard to show.
It barely registered with him that they were travelling on a path he hadn't followed in a very long time. Only when he started seeing familiar sights from his childhood along with the familiar crest of a blue dolphin against gold with red highlights did it truly sink in that he was returning home. He wondered what would have changed in the years since he had been gone. Would people even recognise him now? It hadn't been all that long ago, but he had changed in that time. He was more settled in the skin of Jaskier the bard and had barely thought of the noble he had once been—even when working the courts alongside Yennefer thanks to repeated exposure.
Kerack was only a minor kingdom that mainly profited through trade and shipping. It had originally been settled by pirates so Jaskier guessed it made sense that they continued living off the sea while they settled on land. His cousin, Ferrant de Lettenhove had been about to start his training for the role of royal instigator when Jaskier had left; was Ferrant now holding that title and working under Belohun?
"What are we here for?" he asked Yennefer that night as they bathed and prepared for the next day.
She hummed and manoeuvred him into a position so she could wash his hair before replying. 'King Tarrand is having a bit of trouble with the dryads in the neighbouring forests. He's asked me to take care of it for him."
Jaskier didn't recognise the name at all. "What happened to King Belohun?" he asked.
"Belohun? He's been dead for years. Killed by one of his sons."
Yennefer saved him from having to reply to that by dousing him in water to wash out the soapy residue from his hair. She then passed over the shampoo and Jaskier decided to put aside any confusion about Belohun to the back of his mind for the time being. Yennefer was very particular about her hair and he didn't know if even Geralt would be able to save him if he messed up caring for the silken locks.
It had taken him longer to know he loved Yennefer than it had Geralt—presumably because she had utterly terrified him for most of their early relationship. Well, that and he ordered himself not to fall in love with yet another person who would run towards danger and he would inevitably follow. He was terrible at following orders, even if they were ones he gave himself. And just as he had known he would, he now gladly followed Yennefer to all the dangerous places she went just as he followed Geralt.
It wasn't just that the dangerous situations the two got themselves into provided perfect inspiration for his music, it was also that he didn't want them to face the danger alone. He couldn't really provide protection, but he could provide company. And if he tended to sing more about successful adventures when embarking on dangerous journeys in a hope that it would somehow tell Destiny to protect his loves, well, that was just him being a sentimental, music-obsessed idiot.
King Tarran was old, older than Jaskier at least. Jaskier walked through the small hold that was the royal dwelling of Kerack and looked around for familiar faces. There were a few people who held a passing resemblance to the people he had left behind in this place but they were all not quite right; there would a different feature somewhere, the person would be too young or too old. No one recognised him.
Yennefer was talking to King Tarran and Jaskier hovered in the background. He didn't need to be here, Yennefer had told him as much last night. He could be waiting in the tavern, playing a few songs and enjoying himself instead of listening to the woes of a kingdom. But Jaskier knew that Yennefer appreciated him accompanying her. She had said as much once after a round of delightful stress-relieving sex after a noble had taken the attitude of being Yennefer's master instead of a client she could easily do without.
He let his eyes float around the small throne room absently as he pondered a bridge for his latest work in progress. There were portraits hanging in an small alcove and he made his way over curiously. The first portrait he saw was King Belohun, looking sternly out of the painting and grey-haired with age clearly shown. He was far older than he should be by Jaskier's count. It had only been a few years since he had left Kerack and King Belohun had only been slightly older than Jaskier's age now back then.
Jaskier stared at the portrait in confusion. Had a mage cast an aging curse on the king after Jaskier left? Had the painter been confused somehow? Was there another King Belohun somewhere in Kerack's short history that Jaskier didn't know about and somehow looked like an old version of the King Belohun who had ruled when Jaskier was born?
The next portrait was of a complete stranger to Jaskier by the name of King Viraxas according to the plaque underneath. By all logical rights, this was the successor of King Belohun in the previous portrait. Except the next painting along was clearly King Tarran—the same King Tarran that Yennefer was currently talking to. Three generations stared out at him from the wall and Jaskier could do nothing but stare at them incomprehensively and panic. Dead for years, Yennefer had said when he asked about King Belohun. Dead for years. How many years though?
He only realised he had backed up to the opposite wall and fallen to the floor when Yennefer entered his vision and carefully touched his hand. He snapped his attention away from the portraits and tried to focus on Yennefer. She was saying something but he couldn't hear it. Her lips were moving but the world was muffled. Then the world went completely dark.
When Jaskier became aware again, it was to find himself draped across Yennefer's lap with her fingers weaving through his hair and the sound of her humming one of his tunes. For a moment he didn't remember what had happened to lead him to this situation. Then everything came rushing back to him and he could feel his breathing speed up, his eyes opened wide to stare up at Yennefer who was looking almost as panicked as he felt.
He desperately grasped at the hand she had laying on his chest and closed his eyes to focus on Yennefer's voice as he tried to force away the thought that had come to him as he stared at the three portraits in the throne room. He was normal, completely and utterly normal. Yes, he ran with immortals, but he was still human. There was nothing about him that said otherwise. He was in his twenties. He was.
"You're okay, Jaskier," he registered Yennefer saying. "What can I do? How do I help? You're okay. You're fine. I'm here, how do I help you?"
"Tell me…" he managed to gasp out before having to stop talking and focusing on remembering how to breathe.
Yennefer's free hand continued to brush through Jaskier's hair. "Tell you what?"
"King Belohun…" he started. "How many?"
"There's only been one," Yennefer replied, confused. "He was the second king of Kerack, many years ago. Then his son Viraxas took power and his son, Tarran, is the current king."
Jaskier nodded shakily, trying to assimilate the knowledge without blacking out again. "How long… How long since…" he couldn't say it. It was impossible.
Luckily, Yennefer understood what he was trying to ask and not ask at the same time. "How long since King Belohun ruled?" she confirmed. When Jaskier nodded, she said, "About ninety-three years."
Ninety-three years. Ninety-three years. It had almost been a century since King Belohun had ruled over Kerack and Julian Alfred Pankratz had been one of his subjects.
Jaskier blacked out again.
It was not Yennefer's lap he was in when he woke up again, but Geralt's. Yennefer must have either carried him to wherever Geralt had ended up or ordered Geralt come to them. But even the presence of both Yennefer and Geralt couldn't stop Jaskier's mind whirling and focusing on the fact that he was over one hundred years old. He hadn't even noticed the years going by!
Gods, he still looked like he was in his twenties when by rights he should be buried in a ditch somewhere. He felt rough hands wipe away tears from his face and realised with a start that he had started crying at some point. He heard Geralt call out for Yen and then there was another set of hands holding his face and rubbing circles on his back.
All this time, he had been travelling with immortals and thinking that he should make the most of his time with them because at some point, he would die and leave them behind. And now he knew that, at the very least, he somehow had a much longer lifespan than he thought. Time passed differently when you lived from town to town, contract to contract, and he had missed the passing of tens of years of his own life.
How? How had he missed that kind of time passing by? Surely he would have seen something, noticed something that was too strange, some kind of sign that time was moving forward without him. And he had, he realised. Towns were different than they had been before; a different ruler had commissioned him, Geralt, or Yennefer; people thought he was joking when he said he was Jaskier or that he had chosen to name himself after the first bard who had used that name (he was the only one, there were rules about that sort of thing).
He had just been following the music. There had been stories to tell and not enough time, never enough time, and he had just decided to do what he could. He followed tales and music notes. He provided the melody to Geralt and Yennefer's harmonies. He told the tales of their adventures. He got more people to trust Witchers and spread Yennefer's name across the entire world.
He was old, older than he had ever imagined possible for him.
Jaskier opened his eyes and tried to smile at the worried faces of Yennefer and Geralt. He guessed he didn't do a very good job at it when their worry didn't fade and instead grew stronger. He clasped their hands in his and tried to comfort them as they had done for him.
"I'm fine," he croaked out. Suddenly there was a cup of water in front of him and Jaskier smiled gratefully at Geralt who, he suddenly realised, was still slightly covered in drowner blood and guts. Jaskier wanted to kick himself for worrying Yennefer so much she didn't force Geralt to get fully clean before even thinking about so much as touching a bed like she usually did.
"I just…" he continued after he had drunk the water. "I knew him. King Belohun. I was a child when he—when he was king. I didn't realise how much time had passed."
He could see their minds working, trying to understand, just as he had. Yennefer got there first, which made sense as she had been there when the realisation had first struck him. "King Belohun's reign was almost a century ago, are you…?" she trailed off, Jaskier guessed she was readjusting her worldview.
"Jaskier," Geralt said, "you're human. Humans don't live that long and they certainly don't stay looking the same age."
Jaskier huffed out a laugh that was only a touch deranged. "Tell that to my body. I don't know how it happened, just that it has."
They all sat in silence for a few moments before Yennefer said, "Well, that's one less spell I need to find how to cast, at least. It seems even Time is incapable of getting rid of our bard."
Geralt barked out a laugh and Jaskier chuckled. It was a well-known fact that he had only managed to travel and eventually become lover to these two wonderful and terrifying people by his sheer stubbornness and refusal to leave for longer than it took for tempers to die down.
"I've never been very good at obeying orders," he said. "Maybe I just decided to disobey Time as well at some point."