tossing pennies in the pool

They haven't been on the road to Nilfgaard for more than a week when a rider approaches their camp from a distance.

Milva slinks into the surrounding forest, the leaves momentarily rustling in a tree overhead in what Jaskier assumes to be a defensive position to cover them just in case. Geralt moves slightly in front of him, his hand resting near the hilt of his sword, ready to draw it out at a moment's notice.

"Jaskier?" the rider asks when he reaches them, eyeing Jaskier's lute in particular as he says, "The bard?" The man's dressed in plain clothes with dark, muted colors—thankfully not the black of Nilfgaard—but there's also nothing identifiable about him, or his loyalties, either.

Jaskier steps past Geralt, who gives a slight grunt of protest and annoyance no doubt at him ignoring the potential danger of the situation, and waves his fingers in greeting. "Hello."

"I have something for you," the rider says with no fanfare before dismounting. He then removes two large pouches that look full to bursting from the saddlebags and hands them to him.

Jaskier takes them both, letting out a little noise of surprise at the weight of them. They're even heavier than they looked and they did not look light in the first place. Jaskier hands one of them off to Geralt, who only lets out a low hmm while never taking his eyes off the rider.

With one of his hands now free, Jaskier cautiously opens the pouch to find more crowns than he's seen in his life. Judging by the weight of the other pouch, it's just as full. There can be no doubt as to who it's from.

Radovid kept his word, he thinks a little dizzily. At least part of it, anyway.

Jaskier hadn't wanted to let himself hope that Radovid meant what he said the last time they had seen each other—that he had been sincere about just wanting to be with him and prove himself to him—so afraid of having his heart broken again. But despite himself, a part of him did dare to hope, and now the proof of that is in his hands.

Yet the man himself is not here...

"From the king," the rider offers as an explanation when Jaskier realizes he's been staring silently at the pouch and its contents for too long.

"Vizimir—?" Jaskier starts to say, puzzled, before being interrupted. "King Radovid," the rider corrects, and then adds: "Long may he reign."

"King," Jaskier breathes out faintly. "Oh." Jaskier opens his mouth and closes it, then opens it again. "When— How—" He pauses and tries to compose himself, asking a strained, "What happened exactly?"

"You haven't heard?" the rider asks, perplexed.

"No," Geralt replies from behind him, "we've heard no news from Redania."

The rider looks between them both, seeing the confusion on their faces—well, Jaskier's—before explaining: "A Nilfgaardian assassin killed King Vizimir a week ago. King Radovid was crowned the same night."

Oh, Radovid, Jaskier thinks brokenheartedly. In that moment, he can still see the image of Radovid in his mind: sitting with his knees pulled up to his chest, his arms wrapped around them, sniffling, surrounded by the dead body of his guards. Now his brother is dead, too, and he's king during a bloody war sweeping across the continent.

Now more than ever, Jaskier knows that he was wrong about what he had said to Radovid in a moment of heartbreak: Radovid is more than the mask and he really did see through to the real man underneath all along. And the man that Radovid truly is at his core is someone intelligent, insightful, sharp—but sensitive, too.

A part of Jaskier can't help but wonder if that isn't exactly the type of man—the type of king—that their world needs right now. Someone who doesn't have the disposition nor desire for war and bloodshed.

But on a selfish level, Jaskier can't help but wonder that if Radovid is the kind of man who would still keep his word and do what he could to help even as king...

If Vizimir hadn't...

Would Radovid...

Would he be here with him now?

Would they be together?

So lost to his own thoughts, Jaskier doesn't notice the rider bidding them farewell until he's already mounted his horse.

"Wait!" Jaskier blurts out, darting forward to catch the rider before he leaves. "Would you tell him... Would you tell the King that he has my thanks and that I'm sorry about his brother." Jaskier swallows. "And tell him that I know he's a good man and..." His eyes burn. "And that I think he will make a truly great king."

The rider nods, "I will," and then he's galloping off.

"...For if yer goal be Paradise
Just give your love a firm nudge
If he sinks to darkest night
Embrace his Little Sacrifice!"

Jaskier's voice does not crack at the end of the song and if it does, then the smoke from the campfire they're gathered 'round must be to blame.

"What is that song?" Milva asks with a tone and a look on her face that Jaskier is going to pointedly ignore.

"That," Jaskier says, brightly, "is the very true story of two star-crossed lovers, separated by land and sea! Until the prince decides to sacrifice it all—his crown, his kingdom, the world and everything he knows—even his very legs!—for the love of a siren!"

Milva stares at him incredulously. "A prince would not give up his kingdom for a siren and a man would not give up the lower half of his body at all."

He's about to protest indignantly, but then— "A duke."

Jaskier inhales sharply, head wrenching from how quickly he turns to look from Milva to Geralt. "What?"

"Agloval was a duke, not a prince, and Sh'eenaz was the one who became human to be with him."

Geralt stares at him and there is something very knowing in his gaze.

"Yes, well, I am allowed a little artistic license, Geralt," Jaskier sputters, flustered, bristling, "and a prince is more poetic than a duke."

"But not a king, though?" There is something softer in Geralt's knowing gaze this time that Jaskier can't bear to look at so he looks away.

"No," Jaskier shakes his head and then smiles, trying to keep the melancholy from his eyes and the longing from coloring his voice and doing a poor job of both. "A prince, maybe, but a king would be a fairytale."

But what a lovely one it would be, Jaskier thinks.