#why does anyone use string mops. for instance.

[ratspider]

i gotta be honest i am stoked to be a janitor. i see mops and i get excited

[ivegotbreadinmypants]

you hover like a hummingbird, haunt me in my sleep

a little soul-baring never hurt anyone (2/3) Part 1

Find it here on AO3

Geralt/Jaskier - Soulmate AU

Word Count: 5622

I can see through you, we are the same

It’s perfectly strange, you run in my veins

How can I keep you in my lungs

I breathe what is yours, you breathe what is mine

“You should know you two are not very subtle,” duchess Emylya comments, sipping her wine with delicate hands, peering over the rim at Geralt.

Amber eyes narrow. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Yes, denial. That always works.

The duchess laughs as she tips her head back. Geralt grits his teeth, peering into his goblet of ale that he wishes is full right about now.

“People can tell when two are soulmates. It’s prevalent in everything they do,” she says once the amusement has passed, idly picking apart the empty stem of grapes on her plate.

“For instance—” she starts, leaning over her armrest, nodding to the court, “you have looked over to your bard six times since the start of our conversation.”

Geralt resists the urge to prove her right, but even then, there is an itch to stare into those playful blue eyes.

“He needs protection from jealous husbands,” he says blankly, as if it excuses the fact he hasn’t taken his eyes off of the bard. Emylya adopts a knowing smile.

“I thought you said your bard has never been to Mellaburn,” she wonders out loud, an innocent sparkle in her eyes. “I hardly think he would know anyone here.”

Geralt grits his teeth, averting his gaze—not to look at Jaskier, mind you.

“And—” she swipes a finger over his sleeve, as if she’s wiping dust, “I’ve never seen a Witcher as relaxed as you when your bard merely brushed his hand against your back.”

“He’s not my bard,” he grounds out, almost too quick to retort. The duchess’ brows fly to her hairline.

“Not only are you insufferably unsubtle, I can hardly miss the fact the man is nearly two decades older than me and still looks like he just popped out of studying at Oxenfurt. Don’t take me for a fool.” She shakes her head, looking slightly indignant as she waves her cup of wine around. He wonders if she’s born royal or married into it. With the way she’s unashamed of acting regal at every moment, he’d bet it’s the latter.

“Also, not your bard? Twenty-three years of knowing each other and he’s not your bard?” she asks, a touch of mirthful confusion in her features. Geralt is silent, not unsure of what to say at all—considering he knows any word he says would be turned on its head.

“I was still a child when I heard of Dandelion’s first ballad of you.” At her snort of laughter, Geralt sighs, mindlessly wondering if he’d get hanged if he rolls his eyes at the duchess.

He hears the music come to a graceful end, the room echoing with applause. Geralt doesn’t need to look over to know they’re taking a break.

“What’s your point?”

If he gets drunk enough, he might be able to survive the rest of this conversation. He just hopes Jaskier’s next performance will have the room excited enough so that the duchess won’t be able to hear him over the deafening cheers.

“I am merely curious. Pray tell,” she leans back into her chair, looking far too amused for someone to be messing with a Witcher, “does the bard know you’re in love with him?”

Geralt chokes, ale dribbling from the side of his mouth. The duchess blinks, seemingly not surprised by his reaction at all. He swipes the back of his hand over his mouth, sending a testy glare her way.

“Pray tell, My Grace, are all duchesses this nosy?” he grits out, grabbing a napkin to dry his ale-covered hands.

“No, Witcher, just this one. One who has a penchant for sad love stories,” she merely says, not at all sounding insulted by his sarcasm.

Geralt takes a risky and rolls his eyes for real this time, sighing once again. The evening feels much longer now that there’s the prospect of being meticulously studied by one annoying yet slightly endearing duchess.

“You two are going to grow old together for as long as you live. But…” 

“Why waste time?” Geralt scrunches his nose, the old thought from years ago wringing buried emotions out in his chest. 

“He may live long, longer than any regular human. But he’s still human.” The ale tastes like ash in his mouth and he glares into his cup.

“He’s vulnerable, Witcher. How much longer until he’s in mortal danger, real danger, and you realize that maybe… maybe you didn’t have enough time together at all.” Geralt’s fingers are taut around his goblet, dignity steadfast in not looking for those wide, blue skies.

“That may happen years, months or even days further down the road. You never know. That day might even be tomorrow.” The duchess’ voice is low, yet somehow it drowns out every other noise in the room.

“I’m not saying that this is a certainty.” Geralt fights the building urge to look at Jaskier, to quell his incessant clambering thoughts.

“But sometimes, it’s just better to be safe than sorry. Especially when it comes to the people we love.” 

Geralt stares at her, gaze flat and distant. “You’re oddly wise for someone your age.”

“Not wise. Just perceptive. And I, for one, learn from my mistakes.” The duchess finished with a sip of her wine, the knowing glint in her eye never fading.

Geralt has thought about it before. How can he not? The life of a Witcher is not something to laugh at. They are mutants for a reason; no human can achieve the feats they do, they can’t learn the decades of training and rudimentary magic without wrecking their body along the way.

He made a promise to Jaskier years ago, to keep him safe from harm. And he’s yet to break it.

It’s why Geralt often tries his best not to bring Jaskier along to his dangerous contracts (which is most of them, much to the bard’s chagrin). Jaskier may be his soulmate, but he’s human and vulnerable and susceptible to things Witchers wouldn’t even blink an eye at.

It’s also why Geralt and the other Wolven Witchers decided to teach the bard the basics of combat. They don’t ever use their true strength on him—not even close—but even then, Geralt can see that that pushes Jaskier to his limits. He’s getting better with every training session but it’s still a far cry from being a master.

And that terrifies Geralt. If Jaskier can’t hold his own on an uneven match against a nearly defenseless Witcher, what would happen if Jaskier has to face something much worse than that? And that Geralt won’t be there to protect him?

It’s a string of thoughts he tries not to get tangled in.

Over the years, the fear only grew, especially when nowadays Geralt gets more heat from Nilfgaard because of Ciri. His daughter may be vulnerable, but she’s powerful enough to kill crowds of people with a scream. But Jaskier? The man may be able to jump into a tavern brawl and leave with barely a bruise, but what can he do against monsters? Swing his lute blindly and hope he wins?

Geralt shakes his head. It’s a funny image, but it’s a reality Geralt can never bring himself to laugh at.

But it does beg the question why he doesn’t reach out and bridge the gap between them, growing their friendship into something more—something he denies he wants. He just imagines it would hurt less if he lost Jaskier as a friend rather than as the love of his love, his everything.

He knows his reasoning is utter horseshit, though. He can’t quite fully fool himself into thinking that—because really, how can he? When Jaskier is already both of those things?

His eyes roam the room, looking for a mop of brown hair within the crowds.

He spots Jaskier, but his brows furrow when he sees another dark-haired man come to stand next to him, the mysterious man’s back towards Geralt.

Geralt exhales heavily, exasperated. Another jealous lover.

Considering the many times he’s saved Jaskier from this particular predicament, Geralt is actually curious how the bard has survived this long. Geralt wonders if he can talk his way out without him intervening.

He takes a sip of ale from his goblet, staring inconspicuously at the conversing pair. They seem to be in deep conversation, which has him leaning forward in his seat, curiosity piqued. He convinces himself he will step in if the man pulls out a knife or something that can maim his—the bard.

Amusement tugs at his lips when Jaskier looks more irritated than anything, his blue eyes rolling almost every time the other man opens his mouth.

Not a jealous lover then. They know each other.

Jaskier seems guarded but he doesn’t see the man as a threat; he’s not nervous like those other times Geralt pulled husbands (and sometimes wives) away from hurting the bard. Geralt snorts into his goblet when Jaskier grimaces like he’s grown tired of the conversation, picking up his speed to leave the man behind.

Only the man doesn’t let him go.

Geralt’s goblet stops half-way to his lips, following their movements with his eyes, the amusement dying away.

The man has his hand wrapped around Jaskier’s arm, his knuckles white. The bard snaps at something he says, drops his bread roll and jerks the man’s hand off him, looking furious.

Geralt slams his goblet down onto the table when the man snatches Jaskier back to him; leaning in too close for Geralt’s comfort.

He bolts from his chair, not answering the duchess’ startled inquiries.

The man is whispering something into Jaskier’s ear, and Geralt can feel a harsh tug in his chest—something hot and liquid sliding between his veins. It burns when he can see the man touch Jaskier’s face—who is wincing at it—like he belongs to him.

The court is big and crowded, Geralt doesn’t know if he can make it fast enough to get to his bard, who is—

Jaskier is—

Geralt can feel the twang of fear in his bones, their soul-bond trembling from the weight of Jaskier’s emotion spilling over to Geralt.

He’s ripping the man off the bard before he’s even thinking about it, placing himself as a barrier between the two as he shoves the man away.

“Ah—Geralt!” Jaskier breathes, relief rolling off him in waves, and—before Geralt can blink—slides up next to the Witcher, the bard’s arm winding around his waist. The tremor going through his arm (Geralt can even feel it through his doublet) betrays his self-assured smile. Geralt can hardly see through the fog of possessive fury creeping in.

“Darling, I was just about to tell you about my uh—my old friend,” Jaskier says, too bright and cheerful for that twinge of fear Geralt felt to be fake, the emotion having hit him like a wild wave against a cliff-side. Geralt’s sudden and aptly timed appearance flicked a switch in Jaskier, going from a shaking leaf to a dog happy to see its owner; not that Jaskier is happy—Geralt can sniff the anxiety on him—but the strong relief emanating from within Geralt’s soul is comparable to excitement.

The Witcher blinks, something crossing over his face when he hears Jaskier’s words in his head. Jaskier has many nicknames for Geralt, but darling is not one of them.

Geralt takes in his pale face, wide blinking eyes and quivering voice, and rumbles out softly, gentle words only for Jaskier to hear, “Are you alright? Did he touch you?”

Jaskier pauses, staring deeply into Geralt’s golden eyes for a moment, blue eyes impossibly shiny, but eventually nods. “I’m fine.”

Geralt waits for his next answer.

“Jaskier, did he touch you?”

Jaskier heart-stopping silence is drowned out by the roaring in Geralt’s ears. A deep, thunderous growl rattles in his chest, once golden eyes now looking like hot molten lava under his furrowed brows, his nose flaring as he snarls.

“I see you have your hound with you,” the man says, and Geralt whirls to face him. His tone deceptively light for the sharp look in his green eyes, still acting as if what he did won’t get him speared onto Geralt’s sword. He’s dusting his shoulders like the Witcher had dirtied him, and Geralt wonders if he’ll be able to see bloodstains on his red doublet.

Jaskier digs his fingers into Geralt’s side, the touch nearly sending Geralt keeling over, and the Witcher glances over to his bard. His smile is terse, but those cornflower eyes are seething.

“Excuse me?” Jaskier asks, tone dangerous.

The man looks between the two of them. “You’ve gotten your White Wolf to protect you again. How quaint. Really, I must congratulate you, flower, for picking a perfectly apt name for your pup.”

Geralt doesn’t remember the number of times Jaskier has stood up for him; he’s lost count. And every time, without fail, it stuns Geralt that a person like Jaskier—someone who loves everyone and everything, someone who feels so much—can have the seemingly infinite capacity to genuinely care for a white-haired Witcher and take the harsh words of narrow-minded people in Geralt’s stead, even throwing some biting ones back.

This time is no different.

“You should watch what you say, Valdo, ‘cause I won’t hesitate to cut that tongue out,” Jaskier hisses, the threat sounding sour with resentment in spite of the shivers running through him.

“Do you need your wolf with you all the time? It seems like you’ve only a spine when he comes to your rescue.”

Geralt glowers, stepping to the side to better shield Jaskier from—wait, Valdo? Why does that name sound familiar?

“Believe it or not, I’ve had to stop Jask from hurting people more than he had to me. Even then, I don’t think he’ll stop me this time,” Geralt grumbles, rolling his shoulders, fingers curling into fists.

Valdo tuts. “Careful, Witcher. Would you truly hurt me? In a room full of witnesses? I thought you smarter than the bard.” His tone is patronizing, inherently chafing Geralt’s temper to smithereens.

“It would be a shame, after all the little flower’s done for you. Singing about your… adventures and all that. Practically birthing your reputation.” He grins, a slimy thing. His voice is grating, talking about their life-threatening journeys around the Continent as if they were innocent little children’s trips to the town’s well.

Geralt casts an eye around. There isn’t a crowd circling them, but they’ve caused enough commotion to have the closest people glance over nervously.

“I don’t care,” the Witcher grits out, gold on green, ringing in his ears from how hard he’s clenching his jaw. “You touched him.”

All he sees is red—feels the echo of that twang of unbridled terror like a lute string tugged harshly—and it brightens to a rich golden fire, rage drumming through him as he thinks about how Valdo touched him, he touched Jaskier, he’ll kill that son of a whore—

Callused fingertips smooth their way into his sweating palm, ring-laden fingers lacing with his own, grounding him into earth. Jaskier’s hand squeezes around his, a tipped over boat finally having peace on choppy waters.

“Love, I don’t think the two-faced weasel is worth it.” The words are spoken to a riled-up dog, protective of its pup. He feels the words more than hears them, soft quivering breaths in half-whispers fanning across the side of his neck. It’s soothing, cooling against the red-hot cinders of his anger. But it also alights something dormant within Geralt, like a sparkling star in the darkest of nights.

Valdo’s face twists for merely a moment. Geralt tilts his head, curious. It’s the first sign of something other than cocky indifference.

It seems that Valdo has a weakness.

The bard seems to have picked up on it too and is quick to unmask it for what it is, because he’s now closing the distance between him and Geralt, pressing his front against the Witcher’s tensed side and back.

Valdo’s temples pulsate.

He doesn’t like how Jaskier isn’t his—isn’t an obedient pet.

Jaskier releases his right arm around Geralt and instead reaches up to slide it across and over his shoulder, hand coming to rest on his pec, practically draping himself over the Witcher—like a territorial cat. Jaskier noses the side of Geralt’s neck, goosebumps rising in the wake of Jaskier’s skin delicately running across his.

It’s a clear message.

Jaskier may not be Geralt’s

—but Geralt is Jaskier’s.

Geralt knows they must look ridiculous, what with Jaskier’s defensive posturing and Geralt’s cautious stormy gaze that would bring even the strongest man to his knees; but all he feels is the curl of satisfaction in the pit of his stomach, warming like a campfire when Jaskier’s cheekbone brushes against the scruff of Geralt’s jaw.

In spite of it, it seems to be working. Their staring contest has come down to Valdo’s withering glare, uncontrollable hostility clear in his green eyes. But then a smirk slides onto that whoreson’s face.

“Does he know about the times we spent in my bed chambers? After the times he would leave you?”

Jaskier goes stiff as a rock, his breath stuttering, clearly unsure of how to react to such callously thrown words, but Geralt doesn’t let the words phase him—

(—a quiet part of his mind rages, howls within its cage, desperate to claw the man’s throat out for making Jaskier feel this way—)

and only stands straighter, puffing his chest, broadening his shoulders.

(—that same part of him purrs at the way Jaskier’s fingers twitch and dig into his muscles, testing the Witcher’s strength like he’s dipping a toe into an angry ocean’s waters—)

He meets cornflower blue eyes, hardened amber sap melting into warm honey, and squeezes Jaskier’s hand. It’s his turn to settle the anxious bard back to the Continent.

His gaze snaps back to the toxic green, and the raging fire comes back.

“Do you know he’d once wished a djinn to kill you?” Valdo blinks, not expecting such a remark.

There’s a tiny puff of laughter behind him, tugging Geralt’s lips into a small smirk. “It’s a shame, really. I regret that they turned out to be my wishes. I’d much prefer it now if he’d had them.”

Geralt wants to crowd into the Valdo’s space, growling, prowling and intimidating him like the White Wolf he is, but because he’s held so gently and protectively by the bard, he won’t move a muscle as long as the bard keeps him pacified, like a docile dog kept on a leash. A small part of him withers from the lack of dignity in his thoughts, but he finds he mostly doesn’t care.

“Don’t underestimate my bard. It’s always a mistake to do so,” Geralt rumbles, the slight intonation of pride in his voice completely sincere. At the twitch of Jaskier’s fingers, he glances around and realizes they have a bigger audience now. They should leave since they’re attracting more attention. Only Valdo narrows his eyes, stepping closer, clearly not finished with them yet, opening his mouth to retort but Geralt beats him to it.

“I’d listen if he says he’ll cut your tongue out. You should just hope I’m around next time to stop him.”

Valdo turns his nose up at them.

“Geralt, do you think we get more pockets in all my doublets? I wished I had somewhere to keep the silver dagger on me this evening,” Jaskier says it so casually, so flippantly and Gods—Geralt wishes he can kiss the bard senseless at this moment.

He remembers that silver dagger, a gift for his fortieth birthday because Geralt knows he can’t always protect Jaskier from all types of monsters. He even remembers teaching him how to wield it. Another thrum of adorations rings through him as he recalls how Jaskier, with that particular silver blade, had saved his life more than once.

Jaskier had no problem with taking care of the bandits who threatened to kill Geralt, utterly ruthless with the blade. He doesn’t doubt that the bard would carry out his threat.

Valdo’s icy glare hardens. It’s disturbing to think how Jaskier used to love this person; but at the same, it isn’t because Jaskier falls in love with everybody, falls so freely with abandon, shares pieces of himself to people who don’t deserve it. 

They should leave the scene. Despite his constant complaints of needing to rescue Jaskier, he would never willingly leave the bard in danger. He needs to get him out of here, away from the whoreson.

He’s never felt Jaskier’s fear so strongly over the soul-bond before. This was the first time it’s ever happened. Not even on the more dangerous contracts did Geralt feel such horror over their bond. It rattled him to his core when he was making his hurried way to them, discomforted by how easily Valdo set off the bard.

Geralt stares at Valdo for a moment longer, disgust twisting his face. The man only has beady eyes for Jaskier, somehow looking eerie as he contemplates something.

The Witcher turns around to face Jaskier, but keeps a cautious side-eye on the threat, not trusting the man to stay silent. Geralt’s grip moves to Jaskier’s wrist, unwinding from his embrace—despite the strong urge to stay put. He brushes his thumb over the bard’s pulse point,

(—and tries to calm the beast when he feels the indentations of crescent moons dug into the skin—)

pressing a thumb into that little rhythmic beat of Jaskier’s life. A small weight lifts off of Geralt.

“You alright?” Geralt mumbles, staring deeply into the blue, blue sky. Jaskier nods and opens his mouth—

“You’re proud of that little whore, are you not?”

Fire burns his heart inside out, lightning striking back with a vengeance and Geralt is then sliding away from Jaskier and closing the distance between him and the fucking whoreson, intending to snap his neck and be done with the pest—no one has a right to talk about Jaskier like that—

“Geralt!” The desperate plea of a sweet voice stops him, freezes him in place, just a jerk of his hands away from clawing the eyes of a certain green-eyed bastard.

His fists are white-knuckled, tremoring as they clutch at Valdo’s collar with the suppressed temper of a hundred storms. He brutally yanks him into his space, golden eyes flashing.

Finally, there’s a flash of fear in those green eyes. For once, Geralt does not mind the fear directed at him, in fact he revels in it. He should be afraid. Geralt of Rivia is a Witcher, a cold-blooded monster-killing machine, and he’s a Witcher whose soulmate was just threatened, bullied.

Valdo isn’t taller than Geralt and neither is the Witcher, but his hulking size, bulging arms and barely restrained bloodthirsty mania paints a terrifying picture.

“If it weren’t for Jaskier, I’d castrate you with my bare fucking hands.” His growl comes deep from his chest, voice harsh, gnarly. His glowing eyes brighten, snarl baring a little more of that teeth. Then he smells it.

A slow grin stretching his lips, a dark wolfish thing he knows is a horror to look at. “I can smell it on you.”

The Witcher narrows his eyes. “Fear.”

The scent only gets thicker.

“What in the Gods’ names is happening here?”

Geralt doesn’t stray his gaze away from his target, the murderous glint in fiery embers still being stoked by the way the man heartlessly treated Jaskier. He’s never quite gotten worked up like this before, in regard to his soulmate—including the times the worst types of jealous lovers crowded Jaskier against his will, spitting bodily threats at the bard.

Those types of people would usually cower in seconds under the glower of one irate Witcher who has come to the bard’s rescue. But this, this is different. The violent threats can’t quite compare to the utter bullshit spewing from Valdo’s mouth; they’re more personal and targeted, aimed perfectly blow-for-blow to fish the desired reaction from Jaskier. It’s clear Valdo knows him well—they are, or rather, were close enough for Valdo to which of the bard’s buttons to push, words digging themselves to the hilt in Jaskier.

Geralt would rather not think about the other aspects of their closeness. But it’s clear they have a more than platonic history together.

And it absolutely enrages Geralt that the man would use their past relationship as a weapon, throwing words on a whim like they were daggers, with no regard for the bard’s boundaries—

(—and Jaskier is not known to have many of them; but that just makes the whole thing worse, doesn’t it?)

That a man like Jaskier, who is open and selfless and unabashedly loving, is reduced to—

(­—not weak, never weak—)

—such a vulnerable state, come apart by threats and unwelcomed manhandling.

“Ah—it’s nothing, Your Grace,” Jaskier blurts. Geralt looks at him over his shoulder, incredulous.

“Like shit it’s nothing,” Great grumbles. The whole room is staring at them now. Just for once, can he go to a ball without stirring any trouble and drink in peace?

“Witcher?” the duchess asks gently as she looks between the three of them, pausing at the sight of Geralt’s raised hackles and bared teeth. He meets the eyes of the duchess and, to his surprise, finds himself glad that this particular nosy royal has a soft spot for love stories.

“This man,” he nods jerkily at Valdo, “just insulted and threatened my soulmate.”

A collective gasp is heard throughout the room, and only by his sensitive hearing does he hear the incredulous whispers. Apparently, a lot of people thought Witchers can’t have soulmates; yet, here he is, evidence in the flesh.

Valdo’s eyes spark with realization, chuckling darkly. “At least now I know why you haven’t aged a day since we met.”

There are soft warbles in the back of Jaskier’s throat, words wanting to be spoken but unsure of its delivery.

The rage in his gut simmers. Jaskier never hesitates in dishing out the most cutting and outlandish insults. To know Valdo has such an effect on him—where Jaskier is second-guessing himself—only makes Geralt want to tear the man apart even more.

It’s so rare that people connect the dots between him and Jaskier, figuring out they share a soul-bond; but he doubts it would get any less disorienting when the fact is shoved in their faces, much less said out-loud. Their soul-bond is mostly left unspoken, a rule deemed by Geralt from the first day they met. It became clear to Jaskier that Geralt isn’t one to hold back his punches, literally, even when it comes to his soulmate.

Geralt once mused over the thought that Jaskier must assume the Witcher doesn’t see his soulmate differently from the next person when it can’t be any further from the truth.

The duchess’ lips are set into a firm line, eyes grim. She turns to Valdo and says, “Is this true?”

Valdo backtracks, voice light, “My Grace, I was not aware that the Witcher is his soulmate. And I was merely catching up with an old friend—”

“By insulting him and using emotional blackmail?” Geralt grits out, eyes glinting dangerously.

Valdo cocks a brow, as if he’s challenging him in front of the duchess.

“My Grace, whatever the bard and I discuss is only meant to be kept private, without a Witcher interrupting our conversation.”

Geralt’s hands roll back into fists. “I ­felt his fear over the soul-bond. You did something to him.”

At this, something heavy and dark is shown through the duchess’ delicate features. “You felt the soul-bond?”

Geralt nods, and more murmurs erupt from the crowd. It’s rare that one person of the soul-bond feels something so inherently strong, that their conscience calls out for their other. It’s a phenomenon not to be taken lightly. Everyone in the room knows the weight of his statement.

“Pray tell,” the duchess starts, her tone gaining an edge, “what exactly did you do?”

Valdo opens his mouth, but Geralt cuts in, “My Grace, no offence but I think we should ask Jaskier for the details.”

Geralt glances over to the bard in question, who stares at him for a long silent moment before gratefully nodding, something soft in those blue eyes. Geralt doesn’t want Valdo to spout details Jaskier wouldn’t want out in the open. He isn’t quite sure what Valdo did, but he knows it’s terrible if it ruffled Jaskier’s feathers enough that even Geralt would feel the repercussions.

He’s put the ball in Jaskier’s court, giving him control over the person who has ruined their evening.

“Master Dandelion?” the duchess softly inquires. Jaskier swallows hard, back going stiff again. He gapes and closes his mouth, deep in thought, probably trying to figure how to put what happened into words.

“Uh, well, he didn’t leave a mark on me,” Jaskier simply says, “not visible ones.”

The duchess goes stiffer than Jaskier. “But he laid his hands on you, yes?”

Something flashes across Jaskier’s eyes, meeting the royal’s gaze. The air thickens, and Geralt feels like he’s missing a part of the conversation between the two when Jaskier solemnly nods. The duchess straightens up, snapping her head towards Valdo with a cold gaze, similar to Geralt’s much more heated glare.

“My Grace, you have no idea if this bard is telling the truth,” Valdo points out, still playing the act.

“There are many witnesses. I am sure at least one person in this court has seen what transpired.”

She steps closer to Valdo and Geralt, her crown practically shattering the glass ceiling, a terrifying aura coming off the duchess.

“Even so, you shall show Master Dandelion the respect he has earned. He is one of the most famed bards, if not the most, in our time.”

The more the duchess inches closer, the further Geralt steps away from Valdo, certain the duchess can handle the man. Behind him, he hears the soft footfalls of his bard and he reaches behind blindly, groping for Jaskier’s hand, which squeezes his once their fingers lace together.

“My Grace, might I remind you I am Master Valdo Marx, also a bard of high regard.” The man does a graceful little bow, a little smug smirk on his face. Both Geralt and Jaskier don’t resist the urge to roll their eyes. Suck-up.

A finely shaped brow arches high on the duchess’ face.

“I’m afraid I’ve not heard of you.”

Snickers amongst the crowd break the silence, and even Jaskier can’t help the snort of amusement. An annoyed frown briefly crosses Valdo’s face.

“You should be aware that in Mellaburn, we do not tolerate any foul play against soulmates, especially if it’s against the most renowned bard in the Continent and Geralt of Rivia.” The duchess’ tone is one of incredulous disbelief, as if she’s reminding him how much of an idiot he is for going after a Witcher’s soulmate.

“I hardly doubt the two would hold back had I not intervened,” the duchess says, now standing in front of Valdo, somehow towering over him despite her petite stature.

“Not to forget, they are my special guests. I expect everyone to treat them the same way they do with the members of the ducal table. I do not accept anything less.” Her eyes flash, words cutting. She awfully reminds Geralt of lilac and the chaos behind violet eyes.

The look on Valdo’s face is one of subtle indignation, brows in a slight furrow as he stares down the royal. It’s a thorough dressing down even with the little words the duchess said. Valdo looks around, as if finally realizing he’s crowded in a corner, everyone’s eyes watching his every movement. The sharpness in his eyes dulls like a dagger being sheathed, and he puts his hands up in a placating manner, subtly surrendering.

Geralt’s snarl deepens. He does not want to spend another moment around this heinous snake or stand around getting gawked at.

“Duchess Emylya,” he calls out. She does not turn her gaze away from Valdo, still accessing him from head to toe.

“Yes, Witcher?”

“If you don’t mind, Jaskier and I will be taking our leave.“

Jaskier grips his hand tighter, cutting him off, “But I didn’t get to finish my performance—”

“Of course. I shall get a guard to escort you to your room and a handmaiden to provide as much provisions as you see fit for your trip tomorrow.” She shoots a look at Jaskier—like a worried mother chastising her child, and Geralt nods gratefully, but he pauses at the offer of a room.

It must be an apology of sorts, letting them stay at their palace even though they already have a room at the town’s inn. He doesn’t look at a gift horse in the mouth, however. The duke, having stood by watching the entire confrontation, calls for a guard.

Geralt lets go of Jaskier’s hand—and has to resist when Jaskier gripped it tighter at the last second to keep the Witcher close—to walk over to the speechless group of minstrels, picking up Jaskier’s treasured lute in his hands. He returns to Jaskier, a guard already by the bard’s side, who looks absolutely bewildered by the turn of events.

He passes over the lute, sharing a reassuring look—those soft blues warming in his gaze. Jaskier nearly ducks his head, lips twitching from a flat line to a tiny smile—the sight of it unfurls a knot in Geralt’s chest, one he didn’t know he had.

The bard mumbles a soft ‘thank you’ and trails after the guard who leads their way out, Geralt at his heels—who sends one last scathing look at Valdo before they leave the pin-drop silent room.