zireaelofcintra (zireaelofcintra) wrote in evaluation, @ 2020-03-17 17:36:00 |
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The meeting had gone better than Ciri had expected. She was… disappointed was the wrong word, perhaps perplexed was a better one. And she hadn’t been concerned about them being disappointed until Jaskier had mentioned it, and Geralt had confirmed it and suddenly she couldn’t stop worrying that perhaps they were expecting something… different. Something that wasn’t her.
Still, when Jaskier reached out to her to suggest they meet up for breakfast (though, it was certainly mid-morning and the menu in front of her read Brunch) she said yes in a heartbeat. She wanted to get to know the man that was familiar but not. To see what the differences were, how he was before she was born - or when she was very young.
She hadn’t ordered anything yet, most of the items on the menu were intimidating and she hadn’t thought to ask Frankie before she left as to what the best thing to order off the menu (as if Frankie would even know, she’d probably suggest to just have something from behind the bar and a burger). She figured she could just wait.
Glancing up when she heard footsteps, she smiled, waving Jaskier over to the table when she spotted him - and he her.
To be here at all was strange enough, but the added surprises kept coming. Thus far, and thank all the heavens, they were good surprises. Geralt had apologized (for a version of apology, anyway, it was about what one would expect of the taciturn Witcher, and Jaskier did not hold him to an unfair standard), Cirilla turned up (admittedly not the Cirilla that Jaskier knew, but still a lovely girl and anyone who could make Geralt do that Nearly Almost Smile was good in his books), and now there was the opportunity to catch up.
Or was it catching up, when Ciri was from a future that Jaskier had yet to see? Maybe it was more like cheating. But ask him if he was bothered by the implication.
To spare Geralt the deluge of questions he’d somehow managed to hold the night before, Jaskier suggested breakfast- just the two of them, he and Ciri, and he was delighted that she consented. He beamed brightly upon seeing her, this time dressed to suit his tastes and what befit accompanying a woman of Ciri’s stature to a meal, and took a seat without further ceremony.
“Good morning!” He chimed, cheerful now that it was no longer dreadfully early. Jaskier did not do early mornings if they could be avoided, no matter how many times Geralt insisted on breaking camp in the pale gray light of pre-dawn. “Did you sleep well? You look rosy and rested.”
Ciri rose to greet him as was custom. She might have been raised by wolves (literally, some would say) after the war had ravaged Cintra but she remembered some manners and she wanted to make sure that she at least made a good impression on Jaskier now that she was meeting her for the first - second - time as an adult. Gods, it was a mess.
She tipped her head, sliding back into her seat and nodded. “That’s very kind of you, Jaskier,” she said with a little grin, she didn’t sleep well at all but she’d found sleeping in a room with someone just as competent had helped make her… relax a little more. “You look significantly brighter than I’d have expected considering it’s before midday.”
Pushing a menu in his direction, she admitted, “I haven’t ordered yet, so I’m hoping someone will come with suggestions. Otherwise I will order something I’ve had before which isn’t exciting.”
“No less than you deserve, Little Swallow,” Jaskier assured with a wink, happily embracing the nickname he’d been given knowledge to use. If it was stepping on toes, of course he would stop, and yet. He’d never really been one to shy away from liberties once they were extended.
He took the menu, eyed it with some concern, and tilted it back in her direction. “Is that even a word? Brunch?” It was nothing Jaskier recognized, but he was willing to learn. Humming an inquisitive note, he peered inside and considered the options.
There certainly wasn’t a shortage. Whatever brunch might be, it fully embraced the idea of food, and so Jaskier would embrace it in turn. He did love to eat.
“What have you had? You’ve already picked up so much here, I fear I’ve spent my few days exploring and not getting very far.” Blue eyes flashed up, measuring.
Ciri tried - and failed - to hide her pleased smile behind the menu when Jaskier used the nickname. “A mixture between ‘breakfast’ and ‘lunch’, I believe,” she answered absently, turning the menu over again and perusing the drinks menu on the back. After a moment, she put the menu the right way around and pointed out a couple of items on the menu, though they were from the ‘lunch’ section.
“Burgers are good,” she said, “though inelegant to eat.” They made a mess and she hardly imagined that Jaskier would want that nonsense. He still had decorum. Or, at least, the one she knew did. Even if he was going by a different name which was confusing. Highly confusing. “And, honestly, I- I made a friend here and she’s shown me a lot. Helps when someone who’s more… native can take the lead.”
Well, inelegant wouldn’t suit at all. Jaskier’s nose wrinkled slightly, hinting at distaste. He disliked a mess, and he disliked it more in front of a lady. “Breakfast and lunch,” he mused, thoughtful. “Brunch. That’s clever, really, and the variety is nice. I don’t know the last time I saw this many options on offer.”
Most taverns were limited, woefully so. It was all stew or roast, assuming there was a hot meal at all, and while Geralt was a dab hand at hunting, Jaskier did enjoy variety that went beyond whatever Geralt killed this evening, if the hunting was good enough.
“A friend, that’s marvelous,” Jaskier praised, glancing up again with a smile. “I’ve met a few people, but I don’t know that I’d be so bold as to say they’re my friends. I did rather spend a few days waiting for Geralt to find me. Don’t tell him he preoccupied me that much.” He pointed a warning forefinger, about as threatening as a wobbly-legged fawn, all big eyes and slender limbs.
Ciri snorted. “Your secret is safe with me,” she promised, wide-eyed and innocent looking as much as she was capable. “Besides, I was won over by Frankie and her promise of introducing me to someone called Johnny. It turns out that Johnny is a type of drink. Which I was not as fond of as the vodka.”
She shifted a little, “I have found the people here to mostly be from this future time. Present time. Uh- wherever we are right now. I haven’t been able to leave, but I can still teleport so that- well, it’s something.”
Johnny didn’t sound like any drink Jaskier had heard of before, but that was a growing list now. He supposed it was because, as Ciri said, the people here were from another time, another place, another life with their own language of sorts.
Brunch, he’d learned today. Cameron the other day told him something sucked, which he had to admit, was a particularly evocative word that he’d never applied that way before, but would borrow now. McKenzie talked to him about greenhouses and Cajun food, whatever that was.
Not on this menu, he noticed. Apparently Cajuns, whoever they were, didn’t do brunch.
He blinked, drawn out of his musing about language by Ciri’s remark. “I’m sorry, you can… what? Do you have magic?” Long fingers wiggled, illustrative (but not really, he just liked the gesture because it looked ridiculous and seemed to irk the odd mage he did encounter, now and then).
“Not in the traditional sense,” Ciri said, eyebrow lifting as Jaskier wiggled his fingers at her. “I’m not a sorceress. Despite spending time at Aretuza.” Though she hadn’t spent much time there, honestly, since everything had gone very quickly sideways as the mage rebellion had kicked off right around then and she’d had to run. “But yes, I have… abilities.” That was probably the best way to describe her powers. “Some of them are dampened here, which is frustrating, but it would have been a shame to head back to Nilfgaard and have missed out on seeing you both again.”
After she spoke, she realised other than a reference to her being eight years old, she had no idea when in time Jaskier and Geralt came from. The war had to have started, even if it had not yet crept up towards Brugge.
“Aretuza.” Jaskier whistled, eyes going wide and round. That was certainly something. He had about as much magical ability as he had skill with a sword, which was to say none. But of course it made sense that Ciri had some talents, especially if she took after her mother. Pavetta had been… a whirlwind masquerading as something delicate.
Lovely to look at, surprisingly dangerous. Jaskier could still picture most of that betrothal feast if he closed his eyes. It left an impression, to say the least.
He tilted his head slightly, brow furrowing, and repeated a dubious, “Nilfgaard? I… ah. Well. You did say you’re the Empress now.” Still a puzzle there, but she’d promised the story. Now was as good a time as any. “Geralt’s a little ahead of me,” he confessed, rueful. “So you both have information I don’t. It’s a very unique sort of frustrating.”
“Well,” Ciri said with a little sigh, “it turned out that I was the end result of a relatively long, frustratinging and fruitless genetic experiment, a piece of a singularly frustrating puzzle.” Her tone was slightly bitter, but her memories of wrecking Aval’ach’s lab with Geralt and Yennifer somewhat lessened the sting, a reminder that it could have been worse. Things in the Aen Elle realm could have been worse. Things with- Well. Things could have been worse.
She shook her head, “From that I’m guessing Geralt hasn’t filled you in on what he knows. I- Well, I suppose I can tell you my experiences. Some of them, at least.” Because though he had asked for the full story, she wasn’t sure that there were parts she could bear to recount herself. “Though that is a lot of ground to cover if your last knowledge of me was before the fall of Cintra.”
“When does Geralt ever fill anyone in on what he knows?” Jaskier grumbled, good-natured and fond. The Witcher was singularly infuriating that way, among a few others, but Jaskier wouldn’t change him.
Well. He wouldn’t change that. He had opinions on other things, some of which he’d shared with Geralt himself. Not that he was entirely sure Geralt listened.
Leaning forward, over the menu he’d given up studying, Jasker arched his brows. “I only know that Cintra fell from Geralt, who mentioned he’d finally gone back for you. The last I saw of him, we’d… parted after a dragon hunt.” Something about the way he said it seemed off, but the story wasn’t all that interesting. He was far more focused on hers.
“You don’t owe me anything, you know. No story, no answers, no history lessons… since we are talking history for you, and sometimes that’s a place no one wants to return to,” Jaskier offered, soft. “I’m happy to be here and know you now, provided you promise you won’t laugh if I order something ridiculous and end up wearing it.”
“I won’t laugh,” she promised, “though I may smirk a little. If that would be permitted?” Because if something funny were to happen she would at least smile about it. She was thinking about the dragon hunt, trying to remember a story she might have been told about it but there was nothing. No memories of dragons - other than Geralt mentioning to her once he’d met a golden one. Though he had said nothing of a hunt, so it may have been a different story.
Jaskier looked a little uncomfortable anyway, so she filed it away to ask about later. “Did you see a lot in your travels with him?” she asked, “I don’t mind telling you things, Jaskier. There are just some elements that are… less pleasant.” Her hand lifted, as if to touch the scar on her cheek but she thought better of it. That was hardly the worst. “But I can tell you after the fall of Cintra, when Geralt found me - after leaving me on the outskirts of Brokilon before the war came so far North - we travelled back to Kaer Morhen for the winter. Considering it was still used as a base for the Witchers to winter in, I’ve never seen a place more run down in my life.”
“Well,” Jaskier sighed, “If I wouldn’t allow beautiful women to smirk at me, I’d be eliminating at least half of my social life, so I suppose we can’t have that.” He chuckled, folding his hands on the table and watching her with keen blue eyes. If one couldn’t laugh at themselves, then one was taking life far too seriously.
Jaskier tried not to do that. Life was far too short to be dour.
He made another soft, thoughtful sound, and nodded. “I don’t know that I ever thought to see as much of the Continent as I did after I met Geralt. That was… oh, twenty years ago, give or take. Half my life, chasing his story. Most of my best works have been inspired by those travels.” He grinned, teasing. “Though apparently I’ve still more to compose, since you say I’m famous in my later years. Not so much later, I hope. It would be a shame to be too old to enjoy fame.”
She was… what, ten years older? Fifteen? He was truly awful at gauging a lady’s age, but for good reason. They never wanted him to guess anyway.
Twenty years? Ciri wasn’t even at the point of her Engagement to Wilhelm of Attre and Jaskier had known Geralt for twenty years already? That was impossible, considering how he still looked- How he was-
Well.
“You- you hardly look much younger than when I last saw you a few weeks ago,” Ciri said, he aged very well, in that case. It was remarkable. And enviable for many, she was sure. “You’re the most sought after Bard on the Continent. Geralt is a good muse for you. And music clearly keeps you well.” Except when it got him into terrible trouble and his friends had to rescue him, of course, but that was the life of a bard. “You only wrote one about me, but that was because it was easier to let people assume I’d died in Cintra. You needed to stop singing it, which was a shame. You write others. Will write? Since it hasn’t happened for you yet.” She rubbed her temple, “Shit, this is going to be confusing.”
Jaskier preened, straightening a little in his seat and ruffling a hand through the thick, dark mop of his hair. It was a little uncouth at a meal, but they had no food yet, so he didn’t feel too badly about it. “Well, thank you. I moisturize as often as possible.” All of his products were carefully hoarded and maintained, not that easy on the road or when traveling. Sometimes Jaskier despaired of getting a bath, never mind being able to primp at all.
His grin tempered into something sympathetic as Ciri fumbled over what she wanted to say. It would be difficult to talk through what would be. He didn’t envy her. Or, rather, he envied her knowledge, but not the difficulty in sharing it.
“I’ll write another for you while we’re here. We seem to have the time, and I do have my lute,” Jaskier offered.
“The Little Witcher Girl,” Ciri said, as an offer of a title, clearly pleased by the suggestion. “Since that’s my- one of my favourite parts of my childhood, such as it was. None of them had any idea what to do with a girl, since witchers are all boys and they’d never had a girl in the keep before.” She rolled her eyes, “They’re all like Geralt. Eskel and Lambert did their best, but they taught me how to spit and play Gwent before anything useful. Ves- Vesemir tried, he was more like a grandfather that sent me off to run the gauntlet because ‘it was what witchers did’ rather than because he actually wanted me to be a witcher. We were hiding, and the secret witcher fortress was the best place.”
Fascinated, Jaskier’s gaze sharpened and focused as he listened. There was the tiniest twitch of his fingertips, as if he longed for a quill to make notes, but his memory was excellent. He’d remember every word.
He’d also probably embellish a little. It was simply the way things were done. Artistic license and all that.
“I’ve never met another Witcher,” Jaskier sighed, almost wistful. He’d seen them, of course. Until Geralt, he’d never dared to speak to one, much less tag along on their journey. He wondered if he ever would meet the others, sort of like meeting the extended family.
“How long did you stay with them? It’s no wonder you’re skilled at… stabbing things, was it?” Jaskier snickered softly.
“I’ve had a lot of practice,” Ciri deadpanned. “Stabbing things is definitely my speciality. That and running away from the Wild Hunt.” Everyone knew who they were, though they were just specres that flew across the sky during a cold full moon until Eredin found out that Ciri was alive and had come into her powers. And until she ran from them, of course.
She tilted her head, “Little under a year. We wintered in Kaer Morhen but when Triss came and reminded them how- Triss Merigold, she’s another sorceress. I don’t know if you’ve met her yet.” Because she had never had the chance to learn who did and didn’t know each other, even if Dandelion (Jaskier, she reminded herself, though perhaps he changed his name in the future and that was why she knew him by a different nickname?) and Triss spent months in Oxenfurt together.
“Uh, Triss reminded them of how they weren’t equipped to raise a girl. I could run the Gauntlet just as good as any of the others could when they were younger. I think they gave me some of the Witcher potions? But I was never subjected to the Trials of the Grasses, obviously. You’d like Eskel, Lambert was nice to me because I was a girl. He was kind of a dick to Geralt. I think they had history.”
Jaskier brightened. “I do know Triss,” he agreed, “Though I haven’t seen her of late. Mages are a busy lot, always coming and going in mysterious ways.” Cue another wiggle of his fingers, along with a boyish grin. He’d been remiss in keeping up with some of his colleagues, but travelling made communication tricky at times.
He could well imagine several men- and not simply men, Witchers, who were their own breed in so many ways- trying to raise a girl. A princess. Jaskier would’ve paid good coin to watch that particular disaster.
“Now I’ll have to ask… or, more likely, drop their names to see if he makes faces,” Jaskier plotted, sly. He absolutely would at that. The bard did not make idle threats (though his threats were generally mild, involving evisceration with words rather than blades, so perhaps it didn’t matter).
Ciri grinned. “I would very much like you to capture the moment you ask him about Eskel and Lambert. The devices we use to access the network can take portraits,” she paused, “no, Frankie called them photos. They’re like portraits but much more realistic. And instant. No sitting around for hours in uncomfortable dresses while someone paints you.”
Having sat through at least one family portrait when he was younger, Jaskier could sympathize. He made a face, but immediately pulled out his little phone device and waved it over the table. “Show me, please,” he invited, “Because I need to be able to immortalize the faces Geralt makes. Those eyebrows ought to be shared with the world.” He nodded, sage.
Maybe it was only Jaskier who studied every minute tic of expression, but honestly. He had to. There was no other way to communicate with Geralt given how little he spoke. Which did bring to mind, “Does he talk to you? He raised you, which would imply some level of actual communication, or did you simply learn to interpret the grunting?”
Ciri took his device and then flipped it around on the table, showing him the button to press to open the ‘camera’ and then the button to press to take a photograph. After a brief demonstration on the table, she lifted the device and took a photograph of Jaskier. “There, forever immortalised on this device. Frankie says you can share them on a cloud but I haven’t worked out how to do that yet…”
Her eyebrows lifted. “Do we talk?” She repeated, “Of course we do. He’s not as verbose as some people, but we talk.” It was always enough for her, any attention the adults in her life paid her was enough for her. “He grunts, but uses more words as I got older since I had little patience for his silence.”
Fascinated, Jaskier watched the process with every intention of being able to recreate it himself. He did love to learn new things, and he loved the idea of being able to capture a moment in time. “Well, aren’t I handsome?” He crooned, eyes crinkled with laughter as he took the device back to admire the image on it. “Though what a cloud has to do with anything is beyond me. These people come up with the strangest things.”
He huffed a breath through his nose, tucked the phone away, and gave Ciri a rueful look. “You’re doing better than I am, then. He still mostly grunts at me. I’ve spent quite a lot of time trying to interpret those noises. They’re variable if you have an ear for it.” Jaskier tapped his in explanation.
Ciri snorted. The only person she’d ever heard him be truly talkative (outside of herself) with was Yennifer. Maybe the other Witchers but they usually grunted in code, spoke in looks over her head.
“I don’t think he had much of a choice, you can’t grunt at a traumatised ten-year-old and expect her to understand.” She remembered waking in a cold sweat with a scream on her lips and Geralt just being there, arms around her, soothing her back to sleep with reassurances that she was safe. It took her months to stop needing that. “Besides, I’m sure you’ve spent more time with him than I ultimately got. After the Temple of Melitele and Aretuza, I was on my own for a long time. I didn’t see Geralt again for maybe…” she shrugged, “six years? Seven? Even then he and Yennifer both died and I spent the next however long running between worlds. I came back to save Geralt from the Wild Hunt but couldn’t stay.”
Jaskier’s easy, cheerful good humor vanished between one blink and the next. “Died?” He repeated, aghast. “Geralt died?” He cared little for Yennefer’s continued well-being. They weren’t close. They were nothing at all, really; two people drawn to the Witcher for different reasons, and while he could acknowledge that Yennefer’s death would bother Geralt, that was literally the only thing about it that might be reason for Jaskier to worry.
Geralt did incredibly stupid things when he was upset (even as he pretended not to be capable of being upset, in spite of all the evidence to the contrary).
Ciri didn’t miss how Jaskier’s concern seemed to be more for Geralt than Yennefer, but she hadn’t often seen the two of them in the same room as much as she had in their composite parts. She nodded, seemingly unbothered by what she’d just said, as though death was something one could just brush off.
“Yes,” she said, “but the unicorns helped me take them to a place where they could be resurrected. I didn’t know if it was successful or not, so I laid them to rest and hoped for the best. I was in another world then, near a place called Camelot.”
Oh. Right. Geralt and Yennefer, laid to rest together, very poetic. Jaskier’s expression did something complicated, clouding over for a beat before he forced the emotion aside and dredged up a smile that failed to reach his eyes. “Ah, well. That’s… a lot to take in,” he murmured, finally. “The kind of fantastic story that a mere song won’t capture fully.”
He was clearly missing from this story, too. Which was only fitting, he supposed. He was a sort of bit player at best, when it came to the epic that was Geralt’s life. Ciri’s life too, he thought, considering the woman for a moment. “You clearly lead an interesting life, Little Swallow. Do you have someone chronicling it for you? Every hero or heroine needs someone to keep up with their deeds.”
Ciri shook her head, “No, I don’t think so. Other than you, of course. But you’ve been very busy running your tavern, helping me evade the Wild Hunt and stealing from Dijkstra, so you’ve had your hands full.”
She tilted her head. “If you wanted to, I wouldn’t mind.”
Jaskier blinked, startled. “The spymaster?” He couldn’t imagine what sort of bizarre death wish he would’ve developed to want to do anything involving Dijkstra, but there were a lot of things that would apparently be coming to pass that he wouldn’t have foreseen.
Just as well, he supposed. Jaskier was no seer. He wasn’t even a very good gambler.
Regrouping, he flashed a lopsided smile. “Oh, so long as you’re here and I’m here, you’ll not get rid of me. I’m like a particularly tenacious burr… if burrs had a golden voice and a knack for rhyme.” He winked. “I don’t know if they expect heroics of us, but I’ll leave those to you and Geralt and I’ll make sure to capture every moment from a safe distance.”
“By accident, of course,” Ciri quickly tried to reassure him. “You- it’s not like you intended on getting involved. There was a lot of other stuff happening, besides, it was sorted. So it’s no big deal. And Dijkstra didn’t even try and break your knees.”
She smiled. “I mean, you’re braver than you give yourself credit for. You faced down the Oxenfurt guard for me.”
“Fortunate,” Jaskier agreed, “Since I’m fond of my knees. They’re terribly useful.” He did, on occasion, get mixed up in trouble due to…. Oh, a variety of things, really, from poor impulse control to an overriding need to stand up for slighted honor (not usually his own, for the record), to a general disregard for things like common sense and self-preservation.
Jaskier was generally far less concerned with his own well-being than he should be. It was why mention of the guard only made him crook a lopsided smile. “I imagine I’d face down worse if you needed it. Whether or not I’d be successful is a broader debate.”
Probably not. He wasn’t as skilled with weapons, though he could manage self-defense when needed, and Jaskier preferred verbal attacks to the physical sort. He was much handier with barbed words than… well, actual barbs.
“Let’s hope we don’t find too much trouble here. Geralt thinks this is all meant to lull us into some sort of false sense of security, and he’s probably not wrong.” Jaskier sighed, glancing wistfully at the menu. He rather enjoyed the break. The beds were so very nice here.
Ciri nodded, “I don’t think he’s wrong,” she said, “but I don’t know what might be happening next. At least you’ve got us here to watch your back if something appears that needs to be stabbed.” It was said with a wink. “And I was able to move Kelpie across worlds with me, and I must have teleported her once or twice. So maybe I’d be able to teleport you out of immediate danger but within viewing distance. For stories and all.”
She tipped her head, green eyes focused on Jaskier’s face. “Was I really only eight the last time you saw me?”
“Knowing that is exactly how I can sleep at night,” Jaskier agreed, fervently. He’d be far more unsettled if he were alone in this, but with familiar, trusted, and thoroughly skilled people with him? This whole thing was more adventure than ordeal, and he did love an adventure.
He filed away that bit about teleporting, intrigued. That implied movement, but she didn’t say portal, which was… new. Mages used portals, so far as he knew. But, Ciri wasn’t a mage or sorceress, as she’d already said. So maybe different rules applied.
“Hm?” Jaskier tilted his head, thoughtful, and ticked his fingers along the menu in what was less a nervous gesture and more about a way to keep his hands occupied while he considered. “I want to say it was your eighth birthday. Your grandmother was… ah. Understandably incensed with Geralt, and as he seemed to have no intention of coming near Cintra ever again, I thought it would be prudent to try keeping an eye where I could. Obviously my associations with Geralt are well-known, largely thanks to my own big mouth, so it wasn’t as if the court would host me. Mostly I slipped in with groups of performers for large events- birthdays, anniversaries, festivals, that sort of thing. What’s one more musician when you’re having a party?”
“I’m not my grandmother,” Ciri soothed, “and there’s hardly anything to be done about it now so I’m not about to retrospectively hide you for coming to a party.” She didn’t really know much about Geralt in those times, she’d been told since she was a baby that she was Destined to a white-haired man, to the White Wolf, but Geralt’s name had never been allowed to be spoken in her presence, she found out later.
She shook her head. “Cilanthe was a terrifying woman, but I didn’t know why she was so angry with Witchers in general until I met Geralt in Brokilon. Even then, I think she was angrier that I’d run away from another suitor than she was that I’d found the person I was destined to.”
Jaskier paused, working his way through that with a furrowed brow. Granted, he didn’t know the precise details of Geralt finally meeting Ciri, but he was sure that the Witcher mentioned it came after Cintra fell and the queen died. “I think,” he murmured, puzzled, “We have some events a bit… different.” He hastily added, “Though I’m hardly an expert. Geralt and I parted ways, so I wasn’t present for anything involving you that came after.”
Perhaps he’d misunderstood. Geralt wasn’t big on explaining himself, anyway. Details were nothing he cared to delve into, at least not verbally.
“Anyway, what matters is that he did go find you. Given how bitterly he spoke about destiny the last time we traveled together, I’d wondered if he’d ever bend on the subject.”
“We do?” Ciri asked, “What do you mean?” She made a note to ask Geralt about it, to see if he would be willing to tell her what he knew of where he and Jaskier were. “It is strange… I have never known you to go by the name Jaskier, either.”
She had no idea what to make of that, or what that meant. It was a thought that unsettled her more than she wanted to admit, but she’d spent enough time around dwarves and witchers alike so she could just shove it to one side and ignore it for now.
“I think he has had to accept destiny, considering he and I have been separated and reunited many, many times. Sometimes outside of our control, sometimes because he left me.” Her lips turned down a little. “He spent a long time running from it. But, as you can tell, I’m not a child anymore. He’s had time.”
“Well,” Jaskier hedged, looking uncertain, “When you asked to see him, of course I let him know, but… I asked when he’d finally changed his mind and gone back for you, since to my knowledge he was still stubbornly insistent not to do a thing about your shared destinies. He said he’d gone back only for your grandmother to stick him in prison, where he remained until Nilfgaard laid siege to the city, and by the time he escaped… you were gone and your grandmother had been… ah. Well. You know what happens in a siege.”
Elegant hands turned, flexing like that was a perfectly reasonable gesture to indicate dead. It wasn’t. But it was a delicate subject and, despite the fact that Ciri was a woman grown, Jasker didn’t want to go tossing around her grandmother’s fate as if it were some light gossip.
“I don’t know at what point after he did find you, actually. He must’ve caught up after you both escaped Cintra. It’s very frustrating for you both to be from the future, you realize.” Jaskier sighed, heartfelt.
He didn’t exactly perk up at the mention of his name, though he did shrug one shoulder. “You know my given name, which is something of a surprise. I’ve used my stage name for so long now, and I rarely return home if I can help it.” Jaskier snorted, softly. “The last thing I need is for someone to try roping me into all the boring parts of having a title.”
Ciri snorted, deciding first to sympathise with Jaskier in the difficulties of having a title. “Mine is unnecessarily long, now,” she said, “‘Empress’ rolls off the tongue much more easily.” Even if Temeria had ended up losing the war. The actions of Emyr had been less fanatical than she had thought they were, when she understood what he was doing and why. Calanthe had a lot to answer for, in many respects.
She frowned again, though. “No- Geralt and I met in Brokilon before the war reached Cintra. He left me with Mousesack then, and then after Cintra fell and- Well, after Cintra fell and I fled from the Nilfgaard contingent trying to capture me, we met at a farmhouse. The merchant had been saved by Geralt and was trying to save him, and I’d been picked up by the merchant’s wife, she was trying to help by taking in a war orphan.” Her shoulder hitched. “Destiny. I know he saw you on the Brugge before then, you were the one who told him about the fall of Cintra. Or so he told me. Thank you for that, if he’d kept moving in the direction he had been- we may never have met up again. The merchant would certainly have died.”
“Empress is a very impressive title,” Jaskier agreed with a wry smile. “Very weighty. I bet the crown is, too.” Thanks, but no thanks. Jaskier wouldn’t say that he was irresponsible so much as he wasn’t cut out to be in charge of anything or anyone, and that sometimes included himself. The idea of being responsible for a whole kingdom? Terrifying stuff.
He frowned, trying to link up Ciri’s information with Geralt’s before shaking his head. “I don’t know, you’ll have to ask Geralt. Like I said, my information is woefully outdated. I didn’t know about Cintra until Geralt mentioned it to me here, but… like I said. He and I had only just parted ways after that ridiculous dragon hunt in Caingorn. Literally, he’d sent me packing off the mountain only days before I found myself here.”
Ciri tilted her head, making a mental note to ask Geralt about Cintra - if he could talk about it - before she leaned her chin on her palms. “Caingorn?” she asked, “I don’t- That’s a story he never properly told me. He just went-” she lowered her voice to mimic Geralt’s gruff tone as best she could, even going so far as frowning dramatically, “-dragons, dwarves, hmm, fuck.”
Jaskier snickered softly. “That is a truly remarkable impersonation. You don’t quite have the eyebrows to manage the scowl, but it’s nearly perfect.” It was for the best that she didn’t have the eyebrows, really. Her features were too delicate. Geralt only managed it because he had such a strong jawline.
“Anyway, it’s not much of a story. King Niedamir wanted a dragon taken care of, several parties set out to accomplish the task, and Geralt was invited along because… well, he’s Geralt and he has a certain reputation, mostly thanks to yours truly.” Jaskier fluttered a hand, pressing it to his chest with a crooked grin. “Yennefer was there as well, actually. She and some incredibly hapless knight. He didn’t even make it to the mountain, poor bastard.”
Ciri felt there was more to the story, but she’d just poke Geralt for the details. He wouldn’t resist her for long, she hoped. She’d get the full story from the horse’s mouth, as it were. “That sounds like it should be more exciting than you’ve made it,” she challenged but didn’t push. If he wasn’t telling her a tale, it was probably because he didn’t want to. She would respect that; she wasn’t a twelve year old desperate for distraction from her nightmares anymore.
“Maybe we should order some food? Have you seen anything on the menu that you might like?”
Jaskier’s mouth twisted, caught somewhere between acknowledging and dismissing entirely. There was more to it, of course. There almost always was. But, in this case, it was nothing Jaskier wanted to get into, for a variety of reasons, and so he happily returned his attention to the menu before pointing a finger at a description that caught his attention. “French toast,” he declared, brightly. “I have no idea about the name, but the way it sounds... “
He sighed, dreamy. Jaskier’s sweet tooth was a little notorious, and this mentioned frying and sugar and fruit. Those things were all delicious, so they must be even better together.
Ciri smiled a little and nodded, “I- uh, no one seems to be coming to collect our orders. Shall I go and place an order?” She thought she might have the same, she did enjoy the sweet things and when she’d been here with Frankie beforehand they’d been here much later, and eaten burgers and fries. Which, Ciri had realised, she really liked.
“I’ll be right back.” She tapped the table and slid out of her seat with a grin. “Don’t go anywhere.”
Jaskier widened his eyes, affecting a flattered smile. “Why, served by an Empress, who would’ve imagined? The surprises never end, and each is more delightful than the last,” he teased.
He really was enjoying the surprises. Jaskier lived for a certain level of adventure- nothing too dire, he wasn’t built for it, but to discover new things? Certainly. It seemed there would be no shortage of those here, and at least he had wonderful company in the meantime.