Chapter Text
For the longest time that could be remembered, there was a divide between those who lived on the ground and those that lived in the sky. Most times, those on the ground, the living ones, didn’t truly believe that there was anything else out there. They had yet to meet them, and they had decided there couldn’t be anything else. How foolishly mortal of them. They created explanations to everything, in a way. Explanations for why the heat burnt, for why the air grew cold. For why children died or for why they dreamed. The living ones could attempt to explain it away, but it wouldn’t hold. A fire wouldn’t burn someone, a sword didn’t leave a mark upon anothers skin. Many turned to worship, which was closer to truth. He never thought to be a god, but that was what the living ones called him. But then, what is a god, in truth?
He took power from the worship, and grew stronger when around his domain. He could stand in the middle of a city as it burnt and nothing would harm him, not flame nor smoke nor ash. It wasn’t all destruction, though it did appear that it was where he seemed to thrive originally. It was where he found himself most often. The heat of a battle, the pain and chaos brough forth. The fires burning down cities. It burned in his mind and soul, but he couldn’t stop it. It just was. From it, too, came life. Rebuilding stronger fortifications in cities, new growth in the woods. Fire brings life and death in equal order. That’s where he existed. And his siblings. In order. The other divinities that he knew didn’t hold such order. Their chaos hung about them like a blanket or a film obscuring them.
Destiny was like that. As was Mercy. Those weren’t their names, of course, but they were so old that they became their names, and their chaos wrapped around them like shields protecting them from others trying to interfere. But, for him and his siblings? Interference became an art. Both by the other divinities who wished for their aid — like Kreve seeking out his brother, or Sedna and his younger sister, even him and Raróg , and by the living ones who gave offerings for favours. He had three siblings. Two older and one younger. All perfect in every way, all family, no matter what the living ones said.
Earth. The First born of their mother. The Mother, Melitele as the humans called her . There were others he could think of, but she was best known by the living ones, those who had blood running through their veins rather than golden ichor. Their mother had named her Dana Eada Meadbh, though the humans took to calling her Dana Meadbh, or her self-fashioned name, Lyfia. She glowed with life, like their mother. She was the wisest, the one who took care of the home and the family. People would pray for her to watch the fields, the crops. To watch over loved ones when hunting or when children were to come.
But she also reeked of death. Of battles and blood, the silver, the iron, the steel in her bones, the haunted cruelty, the wild that clung to her skin. And yet, out of all of them, she could pass most easily as human. She had the same shape, the stature, if one ignored the obvious difference of the green tinted skin which glowed like fluorescent lichen found and the constant twigs and leaves in her hair. She often found herself aiding those who provided for themselves, like the huntsman and the farmer, and for others, like the assassin and the rogue. Money and produce swayed their way to her, but she was family, and they loved her all the same.
Air, the Second born. Their mother had named him Aleksy Zenith Antol, a protector of man who could alway be watching. No doubt he hated it. He had named himself Ainsel. He took to his job with intolerance. He watched on the side as life was pulled from the lungs of others, as weather would wreak havoc across the lands. But as he grew, he had found common ground with those who managed the chaos of the world, the magic which flowed through everything. It tempered him, giving assistance to those who sought that which was arcane. He gave aid to those who performed high magic, the mages and wizards, the necromancers. Those whose might balanced his own.
Then, he found himself giving aid to those who wandered, the soldiers, the fighters. Ainsel was similar to Lyfia, and could find himself more easly amongst the living ones, as long as he hid his wings and glamoured his translucent skin, the swords strapped to his side never looked out of place for the world they watched over for very few travellers went through life without a blade by their side. He may not have been the protector that their mother had sought or intended, but he was their brother. They loved him just the same.
Water, the third born. The last of his siblings. She was dangerous, and death surrounded her even on good days. Their mother had named her Zotia Pereplut Avonlea, for she ruled the sea and the stream and the river. She gave wisdom and knowledge to those who sought her out, but more, she brought the storm and the darkness and the chaos. Yet, no matter how wrapped in death she was, she longed to help. She named herself Rite, taking on aid from crafters and skillworkers. She helped sailors and merchants who traveled her waters, but too she gave aid to the artisans and craftsmen. Those who longed to belong and gave their heart into everything they made.
Their mother watched with hidden a smile as she brought mischief and secrets to life, bringing thieves and spies to light when they scorned her, yet shadowing those who gave her worship. Rite, unlike her other siblings, was born without legs, a long tail in their place, and slit eyes to remember that the living ones would never be like them. Anytime someone forgot, all they needed to do was look at their sister. She was scarred by humanity, possibly why she killed those who ignored her and gave treasure to those that didn’t. Rite didn’t move about the continent often, staying in the realm above, where their people watched over the living ones. Again, another sibling becoming not what was intended, but perfect all the same.
Then there was him. Fire, the last and fourth born. Burning bright as the sun shone out of the darkness, capturing itself within his eyes. For a moment, they were as golden as the sun was, before settling into a blue. Strange as it was, with his siblings eyes reflecting their own elements; Brown, Silver, Green. It was unexpected for fire to be blue, but blue were his eyes. Their mother had named him Julian Alfred Pankrats, and he had fun with his name for many years. It was who he was, or rather, had been. He fashioned a name out of a flower, a beautiful and delicate thing. Short lived. Like him in a way. A fire burns hot, but it burns quick. There were few fires that burned eternally, lending him strength. He never cared much for the worship of fire, finding his joy much more in the warmth of life. The passion of love, the poetry that burned into the soul.
Of course, he wasn't all good. None of them were. But such notions were more of mortality. He brought drought and famine, starving the lands when his warmth killed the crops, and though he had learned to control it over time it was natural and kept happening, but much less than when it responded to his emotion. He brought pain, of burnt skin, of bleeding wound from a steel sword, of an arrow shot. It was him who forged them after all, the fire that changed the metal, the harmless bits of earth, into weapons. But he couldn't find to care much for it, when he saw the first man slay a beast to protect the village. The weapon that he saw brought pain instead of safety. He embraced it. It was part of him.
More so, he was the hearth, the home in which people found their rest. The warmth that kept them safe on cold nights. He watched men form cults for him, from the very moment that Man came to the continent and saw the elven eternal flame burn. Watching them set up guards to protect it. To protect him. It was the same across the continent. Fire was worshipped. Much more than the earth and the air. The sailors kept their prayers for the waters, but no town was without flame to keep them safe. He, out of all his siblings, went amongst the living ones the most, despite his form having very little humanity about him.
Who could imagine that the phoenix, the bird of eternal fire, would look to the living ones with such intrigue that he found himself there year after year, under the glamour of his own design locked with a pendant around his neck that only he could remove. It kept his wings in check, gave him the ability of any man amongst the living. He watched the travelers most often, sometimes travelling with them in the guise of a man himself. Whether elven, human, vran, or dwarven, travelers had the most interesting stories. The most fun tales to tell when camped out at the fire. Bandits, too, were those who he found himself caring for. He didn't much take note of the harm they caused, their blood was like fire when in battle, their fighting spirit drew him in. Though, of course, he avoided them when on land. Then, of course, were the strangest living ones he had watched and cherished.
They weren't born like the normal living ones, rather created by Man and Mage after they had come to the land and saw the dangers lurking in the woods, the beasts that his sister rejoiced in. The Witchers were full of fire. Of his warmth. They withstood his much of his torture and poison, and their immunity intruiged him. He had only met a few, but the stories they had told Julian could fill books, whether superstition like the bees and the flowers, or fact, like the beasts and the monsters. He weeped tears of crystal when they died, whether on the path or in their own home, slaughtered, and that was the day he learned what no man had known before — the tears of a firebird were crystalline.
He had brought them to his mother later who pulled him into a hug, saying "There are many things in this world that we may yet still discover." She knew, of course, the paths that could be taken, the stories that had yet to be spun. She knew her children were not what they thought they should be. The earth held danger, the sea held creation, the air held knowledge and the fire held love. She never told the siblings, but she knew. She knew the myths that would be written when tornadoes destroyed cities. She knew the whispers that would leak out when ships were taken beneath the waves. She knew the words that would be spoken when a body was laid in the ground. And she knew the stories that would be told when a forest burnt.
After the death of someone he was close to, he had hid away for a short while, keeping his contact to the living one’s to a minimum. But, not as much as others. Where his family, the uncles and aunts much older than he could probably comprehend, barely did more than listen to prayers of the people, giving occasional blessings or curses against those loyal to them. Julian, like a fire burning through the continent, watched and aided those who never even spoke to him. Then, finally, we walked amongst them once more, making frends and foes alike, crafting the most intricate of tales in his wake.
Stories. That’s all anyone ever was. Whispered words around a campfire, around the hearth, around the warmth of a table. A cup of ale in hand, or maybe a flagon of mead. Stories existed in the eyes of man long before they were written. And long before man had come to the continent, the stories flowed from the mouth of the elves.
The Dwarves were never ones to keep their stories close, to tell anything but the history of their people was strange, but in that history, there were some stories and so, around the fire, around the feast, words flew. Histories, warnings, whispers of protection. ‘Don’t travel unarmed’ they would whisper when man came to the continent. ‘Don’t forget to return laughter with laughter but betrayal with treachery’ they would speak to the younglings.
The Gnomes told stories, words sprinkled with life and clever jokes, morals wrapped in tales. They had sayings for anywhich situation, whether a duel, a court brawl, or a simple walk through the woods, ‘There is an old gnome saying,’ is often what one can hear, should they have the gift of joining a gnome for a meal. Added on, their communities burnt their dead — Cremation, man had called it — and told stories of the life of the deceased.
The Elves were known for both, the rich history and the bold stories. With fae ancestry, they make good on their trickster blood, though still, it was the hearth and the knowledge that passed through them that was most interesting. When Man arrived with the Conjunction, he brought steel and blood. And stories. They told whispers of their past, the other realm that housed them before, as it faded into story and myth and rumour.
Stories. That’s all he wrote. No one wanted to listen to the truth. The bloody horrible truth that plagued the land. No. People wanted heroes and villains and magic and peace. They wanted heroics and heartbreak, they wanted emotion and fantasy. And so, when Julian once again decided to walk upon the ground, that is what he found himself doing. Writing. Performing. Playing. Studying was no problem for him, the amount of offerings his people had given him over the many years of worship paid the way. And after, he sang.
He crafted — not like his sister in tools and advancements, but rather the written word. He composed ballads, poems and verse. He may have mastered logic, grammar, arithmetic, geometry, and rhetoric, but he thrived with astronomy and music. He wanted to be like his siblings in that way. But knew instead, where they were wise, he had the knowledge behind it. And with that knowledge, came renown. People began knowing his name. He began performing in courts, for royalty. Some even gave him gifts when he did. Like the strange King who gave him a plot of land and a title… What need has he of a title?
And so he followed his people across the continent and back. Where he found himself in a pitiful bar that was very much unappreciative of his newest song. The audience may not have liked the song, but still, he thrived. The warmth of the meals, lackluster though they were, brought out his own brand of chaos. Having been booed off the ‘stage’, he found his eyes straying to a lone man. Nothing about him uncommon to Julian — Jaskier, as he had taken to call himself as a ‘stage name’, much better suited for a bard than the stuffy ‘Julian’ his mother had gifted him — that is to say, everything about him was to every other being in the tavern.
White hair and golden eyes, a wolf medallion upon his chest. Just like the other Witcher he had known. He heard whispers of the man, the one in front of him. Men called him the Butcher of Blaviken, a murderer, or so the stories went. And Jaskier could never turn away from a good story that needed writing. Especially when they were yet to have been finished. And the wolf in front of him was about to give him the story of the ages, he could just feel it. Much better he wrote it then any man, all too often they made the hero into the villain, just because they did not fit in socially. What did the gnomes say? ‘A cruel man can be called kind and a kind man may have moments of cruelty. ’
And so, Jaskier moved towards him and smiled, greeting him in the way one would greet a sibling more than a stranger; with a tease, “I love the way you just... sit in the corner and brood.”
“I’m here to drink alone.” The Witcher muttered, taking a long sip.
Jaskier smiled still as he found himself watching the man, “Good. Yeah. So…” He trailed off looking at the Witcher, “No one else hesitated to comment on the quality of my performance, except for you…” Jaskier paused as the man glared, “Come on, you don’t want to keep a man…erm, with bread in his pants, waiting.” There, add in a bit of humanity and foolishness to act the part of the child he appeared to be. That usually soothed over any issues with people thinking him strange. Then again, he really did have bread in his pants too. Yet, the Witcher kept his silence, “You must have some review for me. Come on, three words or less.” He offered.
“They don’t exist.”
The words didn’t exist to describe it? Jaskier hopefully thought, but knew truly, that wasn’t it. “What doesn’t exist?”
“The creatures in your song.”
As someone personally acquainted with most beasts, humanoid and not, on the Continent he did actually know that, except poetic license, right? And it rhymed nicely, so it worked well enough. “And how would you know?” He egged on, “Let me see, White hair… a big old loner type… two very… very scary looking swords…” He pretended to think, “I know who you are.”
“Then you should know to stay away.” He rumbled as he stood, heading for the door.
“Geralt of Rivia, a Witcher.” Jaskier watched as the man headed out before being signaled by one of the patrons claiming a job in the area. How exciting . Jaskier thought as the man claimed there to be a devil. A devil stealing grain rather than virgins, but still. Exciting. And how could he pass up on an opportunity like that?
So he followed, telling the man of the stories he planned to write, the songs he wanted to sing. “People could welcome you; 'Geralt of Rivia, the White Wolf'. A hero.” He mentioned off-hand as they got closer to the mountains. He could feel the elven energy of the area, but didn’t mind much. He wondered if the Witcher took note of anything changing. When someone of his power gave another a name, it quite often stuck, even if it was whispered or said alone. Names, after all, were important.
“Butcher is more correct.” The Witcher muttered not looking away from the path ahead.
Jaskier nodded and then shook his head. What was it with Witcher’s these days and image problems? In Oxenfurt the Cats he had met were much the same. What shifted, and when. Perhaps that was a silly question, considering humanity looked to their protectors with fear and derision. Jaskier’s eyes fell to the horse, then up again, then down to his own shoes. Now, he didn’t actually have any other type of footwear on his person. No, travelling the Continent was much better done with as little to steal as possible. Most of what he wore was made through Chaos or the odd doublet he brought from Oxenfurt. So, really, he could just change his shoes, but, trying to connect with the stoic Witcher was much more interesting.“Mind if I hop up? I’m not exactly wearing the right footwear.”
“Don’t touch Roach.” The Witcher growled and Jaskier conceded quickly. Then Geralt dismounted. For a moment, Jaskier feared he was about to be punched. Again. Did he mention that yet? Instead, however, the man tied Roach to a tree with plenty of grass beneath it as Jaskier decided to fill the silence.
“The Elves called this Dol Blathanna before bequeathing it to the humans and retreating into their golden palacesin the mountains.” Or so the stories went. He watched Geralt not even acknowledge him, “There I go again. Delivering exposition,” and quickly following after as the white-haired man set off.
Jaskier didn’t hesitate, nor regret, walking after the newest Witcher his path had crossed, despite almost immediately being hit in the head and being knocked out. It was an unfortunate side-effect from his glamour. Being very much a squishy human capable of being injured.
When he awoke, he was tied to the unconscious Witcher and alone in a cave. It seemed strange, leaving them there without a watch, but he doubted he could get far without being spotted. Not if he wanted to keep this Witcher alive. It didn’t take long for Geralt to wake and begin struggling in their bonds. Jaskier pushed his back against the Witcher to calm the movements, “This is the part where we escape.”
A violent tug, “This is the part where they kill us!” Geralt all but shouted.
They ? “Who’s ‘they’?” Jaskier asked.
A foot to his side was the answer as two guards entered, the elven woman shouting in Elder, “Drelch.” Beast . Rude, really. And here he thought Elves liked nature and such. It only occured to him as she swore again he remembered his glamour would have hidden who he really was, "Humans, shut up."
Jaskier smiled and responded in kind in Hen Llinge, "Ah, got it. Thanks so much."
The intimidating woman walked around and stood above Jaskier and glared, "Do you want to die right now?"
"As opposed to later?" Geralt snarrled. With a kick to the gut, Geralt shouted again for her to leave him alone. How nice. If Jaskier wasn't tied up literally and metaphorically, he'd probably jot down how warm that protection made him. "He's just a bard." Geralt explained, to the disinterest of the elves.
"You don't desreve the air you breath," The binds behind Jaskier pulled as Geralt was hit, "Everything you touch, you destroy." Another hit, punctuated by the snapping sound of wood. Jaskier tried not to mourn the loss of the expensive lute. That Sylvan fucker.
Jaskier was near the end of his temper, and he was never known to keep it. "You hide away from everything and everyone, where no one can reach you. You beat a bound man, too scared to even look him in the eye! You dare try to justify your cruelty with destruction!" Jaskier shouted, pulling at the ropes.
She grabbed his hair and forced him to look her in the eye. Jaskier wondered if she could see the fire blazing inside him. "Do you think we want to be here? Hiding from you humans," She spat in his face, "My people are dying, and it is you human's who are the cause of it."
Jaskier bit his tongue, before taking a risk, "Essea neén dh'oinne taedh, allder aenye an deith. An me ess wen bleidd dh'oinne! N'te me ymladda.*" Whether the Elf, or the Witcher listened was another question. But she stepped away from him with a glare and knealt infront of Geralt. Then, to his slight amusement, Geralt knocked her down with a headbutt when she tried to look him in the eye. Although, he'd like to deny his laughter when she wouldn't stop coughing on the ground. "Wait, what's wrong with her?"
"She's sick." A new elf walked in and Jaskier frowned.
"Oh, and who's this?"
The Sylvan moved to give aid to the man, "He's Filavandrel, King of the Elves."
"Not a King. Not by choice." The King looked and met Jaskier's eye, before letting them fall as he tended to the woman.
Geralt sighed, "You were stealing grain for them."
Jaskier gave a curious thrill as the Sylvan answered, "I felt for them. They were forced out of Dol Blathanna."
"Forced out?" Jaskier asked, "No, they chose --"
Filavandral snarrled, "Do you know anyone that would choose to leave their home? To starve? To have to rely on a Sylvan to steal for them?" Jaskier supposed, he didn't. Not really. He took comfort in the foods and the fires of home, but he didn't need them to survive. Not like the living ones. The King shook his head as he aided his kin, "Toruviel, no one was supposed to get hurt."
She scoffed, "What's a few humans in the ground when countless elves have died?"
"One Human!" Geralt hissed. And, theoretically, Jaskier supposed, he was correct about that, "And you can let him go."
Filavandral spread his hands as he shook his head, "Then Posada will learn that we've been stealing. The humans will attack, and many will die. On both sides."
Geralt gave a huff, "'The lesser evil'," He muttered quietly, "No matter what you choose you'll come out bloody and hating yourself. Trust me." Jaskier could feel an undercurrent of self-loathing that he longed to soothe. And damn whoever made his Witchers feel like this.
"That's the problem, I can't."
There was a hum from his Witcher, "I understand. Just so long as you understand that it won't be long for you to follow me in death."
"Because men have pushed us away from viable soil. Even chaos is polluted." The Elf King said quietly, and Jaskier shook his head.
"Chaos is the same as it has always been." He said quietly, for if anyone was to take notice of such changes it would be his people. "If anything, it's grown more powerful, not polluted."
Geralt hummed, "Human's just adapted better to it."
"You say adapt, and I say destroy."
"And you are choosing to starve."
Filavandrel's voice shook, "You think this is a choice? My elders worked with humans before they were robbed of all they had. Then, when they fought back, they were slaughtered."
The Great Cleansing. Fuck. Jaskier dropped his head. He had watched as the battles soared across the land. Such things he didn't try to get involved in, never wanting to sway one side for another. Especially when his people weren't the one's fighting. Lyfia and Ainsel had been quite involved, coming home destroyed and tired, a deep-set weariness in their being.
"'The Great Cleansing', human's called it. I called it digging a mass grave for everyone I loved. And now the humans watch these very fields grow. Our babies fertilizer for their grain. I don't wish to bury anyone else. I was once Filavandrel of the Silver Towers. Now I'm Filavandrel of the Edge of the World. If I bring my people down from these mountains it would mean bowing to human sovereignty. They'll make slaves of us. Pariahs of half-blood children."
"Then go somewhere else. Rebuild. Get strong again. Show them that you are more than what they fear you to be," Jaskier memorized Geralt's words in an instant. Perhaps, he could use it against his stubborn Witcher once this was over, "I learned to live with them, so that I may live."
Toruviel stood and inclined her head, before speaking rapidly in Hen Llinge that Jaskier was hard-pressed to follow. The King nodded before unsheathing his knife. The Sylvan reached forward until he was out of Jaskier's vision, "Wait!"
"Unhand me Torque."
"The Witcher could have killed me! But he didn't. He's different. Like us."
Geralt set his shoulders against his back and Jaskier longed to be able to see what was happening. "If you must kill me," Geralt spoke calmly, "I am ready. But the Sylvan is right. Don't call me 'human'."
Filavandrel was silent as he paced to their side, watching the two of them carefully, "Feainnewedd, save me from dramatic Witchers." He muttered as he cut them loose. Jaskier nodded sagely at the slight prayer.
Filavandrel sent Geralt with Torque back to the place where they had fought originally, keeping Jaskier with his people. Insurance, he supposed, as Geralt had haggled handing over his coin to the elves. And the broken horn of the Sylvan would be plenty of proof for the inexperienced farmers. In the meantime, despite being the ‘insurance’, Filavandrel apologised and wished him well on his journey with the Witcher, before gifting him a beautifully crafted lute.
It was later still, after Geralt had returned for him and they were walking back towards civilization, when Jaskier decided what type of story he would tell. “ Will the elf king heed, what the witcher entreats? ” He sang as his mind tried to work through the lines, “ Is history a wheel, doomed to repeat? ” It seemed like it was, history repeated all the time, and only his mother seemed to understand it. But he frowned, it seemed too melancholy and bland. “No, that's... that's shit.”
Geralt rolled his eyes, “This is where we part ways bard. For good.”
Jaskier clicked his tongue, “Look, I promised to change the public's tune about you. At least allow me to try.” He wasn't about to question fate or destiny putting a Witcher on his path, especially after he had taken quite the shine to this one. Oh no, he wasn't getting away. Jaskier bit his lip for a second before nodding to a tune inside his head, walked alongside the ridding Witcher as his fingers began to strum his new lute, “ When a humble bard, graced a ride along with Geralt of Rivia along came this... song. ”
And many years later, he still sang that song at bars. And, he wasn’t alone. For twenty long years, through rough spots and tight squeezes, Geralt had been with him. Maybe not constantly, he had others to watch over and keep safe. He had people to teach and children to help. But, Jaskier would always find Geralt, whether for a few weeks or an entire three seasons of the year.
A/N:
(In which I used the grammer of Latin and Scots Gaelic to format it, which could be incorrect, feel free to shout out in the comments if you know any better!)
Translation:
Essea neén dh'oinne taedh allder aenye an deith. (I am not human bard but fire and flame) / An me ess wen bleidd dh'oinne! N'te me ymladda. (And white wolf human is mine ! Don't fight me.)