Mae govannen!
Okay, so I might have brought in some of the book series' themes... there is a lot of work going into this on my part- trying to tie up My own loose ends! Bear with me! This is just me playing around with the different stories and trying to end up with something that makes some sense and becomes linked together :)
(And anyway- if you don't like it, then I'm sure there's something else out there for you!)
Namarïe
I
"So sing loud and proud, the Song of the Seven,
Be you halfling or gnome, be you dwarven or elven.
You carry their stories, no oppressor can hide them.
Carry their glories and rise, we will rise!"
-from Song of the Seven, written by the bard Jaskier
.
Jaskier concludes his song to loud cheers. The shadows of raised arms dance over the walls of the tavern as the elves all toast him, rare hope in their eyes. Smiling to himself, he bows before making his way back to the table where Geralt is sitting, leaning forwards with his head pillowed on his arms. The witcher looks asleep, but Jaskier is far from fooled. He knows the white-haired man too well by now.
Sitting down, the bard looks toward the elves on the next table. "Can we get a minute? Not long, just..." He waves a hand around, trying to explain. Sometimes he can't remember which members of the commando speak the common tongue.
His luck is in tonight, for the two soldiers nod and rise, making their way over to a table just out of earshot. Jaskier leans back in his chair, groaning as his back cracks from the strain of walking all day.
"I still find that hard to believe."
Jaskier glances to Geralt. "Huh?"
The witcher raises his head, golden eyes shining softly in the gloom. The Dimeritium shackles on his wrists clinking as he shifts back in his seat. "I said, I still find it hard to believe." His voice is a low rumble, and Jaskier has to strain to hear it over the sounds of joy around them.
"What, that an ancient elven sorceress appeared to me, convinced me to tell a thousand year old story about the downfall of Xin'trea, and then left me to realise that it had all happened inside my head?" Jaskier mulls it all over. "Yeah... okay, I can see why you might say that..." A thought strikes him and he needles Geralt with a small smirk. "Unless you mean it's unbelievable that the first witcher was an elf?"
"All witchers know of Fjall Stoneheart, Jaskier," says Geralt, smiling faintly at the shock in the bard's eyes. "How could we not?"
"Errrm...well..." Jaskier coughs. "You didn't...well..."
"...strike you as someone who reads books?" Geralt is definitely amused now. So he's in a humorous mood then, is he?
"Yes," says Jaskier. "I've never seen you with any kind of book. Ever."
"Hmm."
Jaskier and the witcher fall into a comfortable silence. It's nice to be resting a little. Since the Scoia'Tael commando had come to the bard's rescue, all he has been doing is walking, or riding a horse, and his legs truly ache.
It had been a shock for him to find Geralt back at the elves' camp, wrists held by Dimeritium shackles, a black bruise on his jaw and blood streaked through his hair. Jaskier had gotten the full story from the witcher the first night as they rested beneath a copse of pine trees.
He had come for Jaskier as well. Only to run into the elves. Not having any reason to trust the witcher, they had bound him and brought him along.
Now the both of them are going along with the elves to goodness knew where. The bard has been assured by the leader of the Scoia'Tael commando that he will be taken in safety to the nearest city and left there.
They have neglected to mention Geralt's fate.
"Did they perhaps say whether they would let you come with me, or...?"
Geralt glances at the elves, his golden eyes unreadable. "No. They never did."
"Ah." Jaskier swallows, mouth suddenly dry. "Fuck." Surely they will not kill the witcher? He has never harmed any elf. Geralt has even once expressed the thought that the elves are doing something right in rebelling. Perhaps Jaskier must mention that to the commando leader some time soon.
"Remind me to clarify on that point. I don't think Ciri and Yennefer would be too happy if I just let you die."
"They'd probably come after you next," rumbles the witcher in agreement.
Jaskier splutters. "Now, hold on just a minute-"
Geralt laughs, a deep rich sound, and Jaskier is unable to stay angry. When is the last time that he has heard the witcher laugh? Too long. It makes Geralt look years younger, smoothing the grim set of his handsome face.
"Bloody bastard," mutters the bard, but he too is smiling. Some people still cannot understand why he chooses to be friends with Geralt. They cannot see what he sees; a good man who risks his life to save others. A man who cares deeply about those who love him. Sometimes it is comforting for Jaskier to know that, if he ever needs help, Geralt will come. He has spoken to Ciri over this, and knows that she feels the same way- and sees the witcher as her father.
"Insufferable poet," counters the white-haired man.
"I'm a bard, Geralt."
"Same thing," says the witcher with a shrug. He studies Jaskier for a while, face open in a way that is rarely seen. Jaskier is tempted to ask him to keep that look, because it makes him look a lot less scary than usual. "So, what happened next? To The Black Rose?"
Jaskier leans back. "I thought you didn't believe me?" He is surprised at the genuine curiosity in Geralt's voice.
"I'm starting to," is the witcher's reply.
When Jaskier searches those golden eyes and finds nothing but honesty, he smiles and begins to speak...
And so five became seven, and the Black Rose was born.
The Ghost, The Lark, Brother Death, Swallow, The Silver Hammer, Aenye, and The Blue Merchant.
Tales of their exploits are told from the mountains to the sea. The liberators of the lowborn. Saviours of the common folk. They come and go like the wind- none did catch them. No royal monarch, no spoilt princess. They are not without mercy, for they leave the rulers alive after making them swear to leave their kingdoms. To live a lowborn life. Even a life in poverty is better than death, it seems. For seldom do they need to kill anyone.
They are making a difference.
Changing the world.
The way of life on the Continent.
Paving the way for a new world, free to all. Even the strange beings that have been stranded in their world. They call themselves Humans. Harmless for the most part. They have not the speed of the elves, nor strength such as the dwarves. They are clever to a fault, and rather easy to kill.
As it is, the newcomers are left to their own devices.
Eredin does not really care for that now, however. Not while he is kneeling beside Éile here in the mud, rain drenching his shivering frame. His hazel curls are plastered to his skull, eyes narrow against the water as he holds Éile firmly against him, her body shaking in his arms. She spasms again, her voice high with pain.
"Ysgarthiad!" she spits, groaning as her body contracts again, her free hand knotted in Eredin's shirt.
"I told you not to come with us." He grunts as she jerks her head back into his gut. Winded, his next words are said in a gasp. "Why can you not sometimes listen?"
"I'm fine," she growls.
Scían gives her a disparaging look. "You are not fine," she says sternly. The Ghost Tribe warrior is crouched down by Éile's hips, blocking Eredin's view of what is going on. "Hold her still, Aenye."
After all this time, Eredin reacts to his nickname the same as he would to his name. His arms tighten around Éile, halting her struggles. He knows how a body tries to escape from pain by running.
"Is the road still clear, Callan?" He hears Meldof shout from the opposite end of the trail. The dwarf stands sentry with Gwen in hand, her horse behind her, breath steaming in the chill air.
"Aye!" comes the shout from the edge of the trees. If Eredin squints, he can just make out the black shadow that is Callan, his hatchet stuck in his belt.
"All is going well," soothes Zacaré, her hand still on Éile's waist. "Just keep breathing."
"You tell her that once more, and she is going to kill you, Zacaré," says Brían from beside Eredin. His hand is a comforting weight of his husband's shoulder as Eredin struggles to keep Éile still. Zacaré had said that movement will perhaps do more harm than good.
"You try giving birth in the mud on a shitty road in the middle of the night!" snaps Éile, panting through her teeth.
"We told you not to come," Eredin reminds her. "There is no one to blame here but yourself."
"Eredin," gasps Éile, "if you say that once more, I will put my fist through your flame-kissed face."
Brían laughs softly, squeezing Eredin's shoulder. "Don't take it badly. She will not remember this after."
Eredin knows that. He finds grudges useless anyway. He will hold nothing against Éile, not while she is in such pain. If cursing him helps take her mind off her ordeal, then he will weather it gladly. The warrior bard groans, finding Brían's free hand and gripping it tightly. Enough that Eredin's sharp hearing picks up a small pop from the appendage in question. A finger giving way, no doubt.
Brían jerks against him, dark eyes snapping closed. "Fuck," he breathes.
Eredin has to hold in a laugh, hearing his eloquent husband resort to such language. "Ess cáelm, minne," he says softly.
Brían treats him to a roll of his eyes.
"It is coming!" calls Zacaré, now kneeling between Éile's legs. Eredin looks away, slightly sick at all the blood and fluid coating her hands. Giving birth is a messy business...one he is glad to be exempt from. He knows that Brían secretly longs for children, but they have not gotten the chance to speak of adopting any. Nor had the time required to raise them. Constantly on the move- fighting for their lives.
It is not the life for a child.
Though it seems it will be the life of Éile's...
"It's a girl," says Zacaré, her face lit with joy.
The little elf wails, waving its arms.
His job done, Eredin rises and moves away down the road to join Callan. He has seen enough for one day. Never has he thought that childbirth would be the thing to finally turn his stomach.
Callan greets him with a hard pat on the shoulder. His remaining eye is full of amusement. "You feeling a bit ill there, Eredin?"
Eredin snorts and gives him a nod. It is fading now, however. He feels clearer-headed already. "You and Zacaré...have you ever thought of..."
"A few times over the years." Callan inspects the blade of his hatchet. The tall warrior shrugs. "It is hardy the type of life for a child, this."
Last week, they had toppled the king of Kaedwen. His people were starving, all their harvest given in trade so the foolish monarch could pay for higher walls. He begged when Scían swung Soulreaver, but his blood splattered the walls just the same.
Nearly a year now, they have been on the road as The Black Rose. They have done well. But now...
"Éile needs to stop," says Eredin, glancing back at the others. Brían, Scían, and Zacaré are all sitting by her, keeping watch as she feeds her daughter for the first time. "She can hardly lead us now with a child dependant on her."
"Lad, you are most welcome to mention that to her," says Callan, smiling. "Though, somehow I doubt it will go well for you."
Eredin knows the scarred warrior is right, so he says nothing in return. He simply stands there, rain soaking his body, and keeps watch.
II
"Bonded in a bloodquest for vengeance and truth,
Destined to fail but the Seven refused.
Seven warriors apart, unite as one fist,
The empire would crush them but they said 'fuck this!' "
-from Song of the Seven, written by the bard Jaskier
.
"And her daughter was-"
"Lara Dorren aep Shiadhal of the Aen Sidhe," says Jaskier. He snags a mug of ale from a neighbouring table and has a long drink. Gods, his throat is dry. "She fell in love with a mortal man, named Cregennan of Lod."
"We all know what happens to them," mutters Geralt quietly A wince leaves him as his shacked hands scrape the table. Jaskier can see dark bruising forming under the steel. "And who eventually came from that union."
Ciri.
Of course Jaskier knows. Geralt had finally seen fit to tell him the tale of the elder blood running in the veins of the Cintran princess. It took him some time before he could take it all in. But now he understands. "But the story isn't about her. It's about her mother still."
"Go on then."
"Hang on." Jaskier holds up a hand. "I want to ask you something first."
A white eyebrow goes up, but Geralt waits.
Jaskier points an accusing finger at the witcher, tone cynical. "How did the elves overpower you?" At Geralt's frown, he waves a hand. "No- shush. I'm not done." He leans forwards, lowering his voice. "I've seen you fight off monsters five times your size. How the fuck did a band of elves do you in?"
"The elves fought dirty," says Geralt, low voice a husky rumble of irritation. He narrows those golden cat's eyes of his. "The head of the commando came up behind me with a hammer."
"Wh..." Jaskier's jaw falls open as Geralt turns his head to display a map of dried blood clotting the hair behind his ear. A half-healed gash carves through the pale flesh. No wonder the witcher flinches every time Jaskier tries to comb it out for him, like he always has. He had thought Geralt was angry at him. "Fuck," is all he can think of to say.
"Hmm. Fuck indeed." Geralt gives him a wan smile, stubbled jaw still hosting that ugly black bruise. He looks like shit.
Then again, Jaskier supposes that he too looks like shit. Hell, even the elves look better than the two of them. It brings a smile to his lips.
"We're a right pair of vagabonds now, eh?"
"I don't know," grunts the witcher. "You've always been a vagabond..."
Jaskier snorts. "And on that note...let's rather get back to the story, shall we? The last time we were trading insults, it didn't go so well."
Geralt nods, agreeing.
For the first time in a nearly a year, The Black Rose is at rest.
Though they decide not to part ways, Scían leaves them for a few days on business of her own. Brían does not ask where she is going.
He knows.
They all do.
She rides for the graves of her fellow Ghost Tribe warriors. For her solace.
Everyone needs something.
Brían savours the warmth on his face, sunlight flooding from the opened curtains. The home they have made the base of The Black Rose is more than able to accomodate six elves and a dwarf. Eredin lies still fast asleep beside his husband, mouth slightly open, hazel curls spread out under his head. Brían's heart always aches with love seeing him like this. So innocent and beautiful. Even the faded burn scars on the side of his face cannot mar him. They only attest to his deep strength.
Brían pulls Eredin into his arms, and the smaller elf gives a sleepy yawn, his blue eyes fluttering open to gaze into Brían's.
"Yn aep feainn?" he asks of Brían.
The taller elf smiles, running a knuckle down the curve of Eredin's throat. He relaxed into the touch, pressing himself against his husband, his face in Brían's chest. "Essea ven enoigh," he says in reply.
"Mmm..."
Brían softly presses a kiss to that smiling mouth, enough force behind it that Eredin instantly responds. They tangle together, content with the feel of each other, the warm heat of the sun adding to their bliss.
"Am I interrupting something?" Meldof is standing in the doorway, Gwen in hand. She is grinning, her eyes lit with mischief.
"Yes," grunts Eredin, flopping back down on the pillows, rubbing a hand over his face.
"Not at all," counters Brían, ever the diplomat. "Can we help?"
"I'm not looking for help, Brían, but thank you." Meldof jerks a thumb over her shoulder. "Éile's called everyone together. Says she has something important to say."
It was important.
That was the day The Black Rose was put on hold.
Brían has seen it coming. After all, Éile can hardly ride into battle with a child on her horse.
"It's just until she's older," insists the warrior bard.
They all agree. Time away from the fight is a welcome notion for them. One decision is made: they will all remain here- together. To look out for each other.
As a family.
"Uncle Eredin!"
He looks up with a smile as the small form of Lara Dorren, daughter of Éile and Fjall, comes hurtling into the study. He sets down the reports and kneels to catch her her in a hug. "Good morning, baeg yn."
She pulls back, her little face shining. "Modron says that I can go with her into town!"
Understandably, Éile has been careful where her daughter is concerned. The child of The Lark would be a powerful bargaining chip to any ruined monarch who wished them ill, and none of them have any wish to see sweet little Lara harmed. She has her mother's fire, but in looks she resembles her late father. Eredin cannot claim to remember what Fjall had looked like- his only glimpse was too fleeting.
As she hops up onto his chair, legs swinging, Eredin winces- a sudden pain in his chest bringing the world to a sharp tilt. He remains crouching, a palm flat to his breast- mouth downturned.
Ever since Balor's damned fire... the old scars have troubled him. While the map on his face has faded with time, the angry raw scars on his chest refuse to cease troubling him.
Not that he complains. They all have their own burdens to bear.
"She says I can help her with the bread!" chatters Lara, before her large green eyes widen. Her little rosebud of a mouth opens into a perfect O. "Uncle Eredin, are you alright?"
He breathes deep and gives her a smile. "I am well, little one."
Footsteps.
A hand enters his line of sight, slender fingers curled in an invitation. Eredin laughs softly, and lets Brían pull him onto his feet again. His husband slides an arm about the smaller elf's waist, holding him close.
"Brían!" says Lara in delight.
Eredin closes his eyes. Barring the lingering pain, he is content. If only it could remain so for eternity.
He should have known better.
III
"You carry their stories,
No oppressor can hide them.
Carry their glories and rise,
We will rise."
-from Song of The Seven, written by the bard Jaskier
.
"Cáemm, ninnau va a'taeghane."
Jaskier looks up, breaking off the tale he is busy weaving. One of the commanders stands over him, hand on his sword-hilt. There is a flickering anxiety in his dark eyes, but a hardness as well. So Jaskier obeys, rising to his feet and trying not to think too hard of what is going to happen when they reach the end of their journey.
Two foot soldiers flank Geralt as he stands, each with a hand on his shoulders. To his credit, the witcher tolerates it, but Jaskier can see the effort it is taking in those gleaming golden eyes and the hard set of his jaw.
"What are you going to do with him?" asks Jaskier nervously. "When we arrive?"
"Who?" The commander's gaze falls on the witcher and how close to him Jaskier is hovering. "The Vatt'ghern?"
"Yes."
The commander shrugs, his armour creaking. Suddenly Jaskier feels cold, as though he has fallen through ice into a freezing lake. And he somehow knows what the elf is going to say before he says it.
"It remains to be seen when we return. But I should think they will kill him."
Jaskier wants to shout. He wants to scream at Geralt to run, far away from here where they would never catch him. The witcher's face is unreadable, but Jaskier sees the slight tension that bleeds into his shoulders, the faint coiling of his muscles.
Unfortunately, so does the commander. He moves like a breath of wind, a flash of silver sliding into his hand, and then Geralt is held fast against the old bricks with his arms pinned by the soldiers and the commander's knife at his throat. Jaskier's heart leaps up into the same region as Geralt lets out a grunt of pain when his spine slams into the wall. His shackles are pulled taught by the administrations of the elves, digging into his pale skin, leaving drops of blood to slide down his hands.
"Know that you might be fast, Vatt'ghern, but if I see such from you again I will not hesitate to slit your throat NOW and be done with it."
Geralt bares his teeth in a snarl, the blade kissing his throat has drawn blood, vivid against his normal pallor. "I have never harmed an elf, and I don't plan to start now, but what have I done that you want me dead?"
"You have knowledge of our operations," spits the commander, and the knife sinks deeper into the skin of Geralt's throat. The witcher's mouth curls into what might be a shadow of... pain?
Jaskier springs forwards, and drags the elf away. When the commander turns on him with a shout, he holds up his hands. His tone is calm and careful.
"Please just let him go." His voice almost breaks before he is finished, but he forges on. "The last thing Geralt would do is betray you to humans. Please, all he did was come to rescue me."
The commander jerks his head like one might when irritated by a rather stubborn fly, and one of his soldiers strikes Geralt full in the chest.
Once,
Twice,
Three times.
The witcher jerks in surprise at every blow, but gives nothing more than a pained cough when it's over.
"Leave him alone!" shouts Jaskier.
The captain curls his lip and gestures with a hand.
A fourth blow brings a grunt of "fuck!" from the witcher, and a hint of blood on his lips.
Jaskier turns on the commander and the elf takes a step back. Perhaps it's the anger in the bard's eyes. Or the hard set of his mouth. Or the iron in his tone when he says,
"Geralt and I will be leaving now. Alone. I suggest you don't try to dispute that fact."
The commander scoffs, "and where would you go, Sandpiper? With the armies of men hunting you. How do you plan to stay out of their hands? We have already seen how you fail on that fact."
Jaskier bites back the colorful remarks stinging his tongue and chooses to smile cuttingly at the elven warrior.
"Because I, my dear friend, have a witcher to help me."
"Well, you can't pretend to be defenceless now..." grunts the witcher, as he offers a hand to help Jaskier up the rock slide. A sharp breath hisses through his teeth as Jaskier grabs onto his mangled wrist, but he makes no other complaint. "I certainly won't be indulging you any longer."
Jaskier huffs, but grins anyway. "Admit it, you were surprised."
The witcher gives him an unreadable look. "I'm always surprised with you, Jask."
The bard tries not to preen, but he can tell from the amusement in Geralt's eyes that he fails. "Do you know where we are?"
The witcher grunts. "I can have us in Novigrad in five days. Yen can find us from there."
That sounds alright to Jaskier, so he nods sagely. "Always good to have a witch, eh Geralt?"
The witcher says nothing, absently rubbing his wrists. He is mottled with bruises, it is painful to see in the daylight. And then a thought occurs to Jaskier and he stares.
"Your swords!"
Geralt frowns. "Hmm?"
"Your swords! Didn't the elves take them when they caught you?"
Geralt smirks. "They certainly took the sword I had on me, but it wasn't one of my blades."
"You wily old thing!" Jaskier shoves the witcher in the back, laughing. "I suppose I shouldn't be surprised. After all, I always knew you were smarter than you let on."
Geralt nudges him back gently with his shoulder.
Later that night, both lying back to back to conserve warmth, Jaskier rolls over to face the witcher, eyes owlish in the gloom. The faint glow of the fire casts warm shadows over their forms, turning the gleam of Geralt's eyes into a sheen of golden steel.
"You never asked me how the story ended," whispers the bard, gazing up into the witcher's face. "About what came after."
"... The rest is history," murmurs Geralt softly. "Blood and death and pain."
"And hope," adds Jaskier.
Geralt tugs him closer with an arm about his waist and rests his chin atop the bard's hazel hair.
"And hope," he agrees softly
ELDER SPEECH:
- Ysgarthiad--- shit
- Ess cáelm, minne--- be calm, love
- Yn aep feainn? --- up with the sun?
- Essea ven enoigh -- I am rested enough.
- Baeg yn -- little one
- Modron-- Mother
- Cáemm, ninnau va a'taeghane -- come, we go now.
- Vatt'ghern -- Witcher