Of Bards and Witchers

Third

    The Pheasants Inn tavern owner— Sara— is so pleased by the reception he's received that she offers him ( and Beastie! ) refuge.

    "Never seen the tavern so full," she says. Her face is thoughtful, but Jaskier knows that inwardly she is beaming. "Same as tonight. I'll keep you and yer mutt fed, set you with a room. You keep what you can pull, have run of the mill."

    The offer is too good to refuse— he's never been shown such kindness— except perhaps by a certain barmaid in Novigrad some months back— and Jaskier is so relieved and elated and utterly grateful to be indefinitely sheltered that he reaches across the counter and kisses the blessed Saint Sara straight on the mouth.

    She backhands him, hits him with her filthy rag and makes him sweep the entire inn twice. He doesn't even get paid for the excessive and unwarranted labor.

    She looks at him as he goes over the stairs again— "Sara, please," he says, leaning precariously against the broom at hand. "This is torture. Cruel and unusual punishment. My hands were made for finer things... Not that your profession isn't fine! We need each other after all, do we not? Can't be a bard without an establishment to play in, but how am I to play at all if my hands are riddled with splinters from this rickety broom? Buy a new one at least— Nay, perish the thought as I've spoken it, I will buy the broom. The finest broom you've ever laid eyes upon— Take it as a show of my gratitude, splintery free hands—" and she is smiling openly at him. Somehow, he suddenly doesn't mind the work. Or the hand-shaped bruise blossoming across his cheek.

    —

Outside of a tavern in Novigrad, in the dead of night, Jaskier looses a part of himself to an entitled piss drunk prick parading about with a blade.

The drunk's lips press into his hair, and the edge of the dagger dances across the soft flesh of his throat. "Fine line between bard and whore, eh?" The man laughs. His breath stinks of ale and depravity.

When he's put together enough to stumble inside it is nearing the break of dawn, and the sweeping barmaid takes one look at him and she knows. At that his heart breaks— at the understanding, aching sorrow etched into her features. His heart breaks not for himself, but for those like himself; those who have been wronged and will be wronged. Those that can do nothing about it but pray it never happens again. She is hardly more than a stranger but in the start of this new day they are something far more; she embraces him, draws him a bath and sweeps a damp rag across his forehead. He will write a song for her. For them.

It is not the first time, nor will it be the last. He leaves Novigrad that morning with his head held aloft as always; if there is a tightness to his throat or a trembling to his fingers, that is only for him and the barmaid to know.

Nothing that happens under the cover of dark or ale or otherwise will define him. He will not let it.

    —

    By his third day in Blackwater, Beastie is making himself acquainted with the townsfolk. They dote on him; he catches patrons stop to scratch behind his ear, children slip him strips of meat no doubt smuggled from their mother's kitchen. Between exploring and bustling about the inn, Jaskier learns some things.

    Sara is newly widowed. She talks of her late husband with glistening eyes and a heart threatening to burst— "I knew it was coming," she says. "I could feel it in my bones, Jaskier. He was so sickly that it was almost a mercy when he passed... But I am selfish—" the woman licks her lips— "I would've kept him at my side sufferin' if only so he could see the babe before he up and left."

    Sara is pregnant. Despite his time in this quaint little village, Jaskier has never seen her from behind the counter— now he lifts himself up to peer over it with barely contained excitement. His eyes widen at the swell of her belly and the bard shouts, with unabashed delight, "Aha—!"

And promptly falls off the counter when he tries to point.

Sara laughs for the first time since the passing of her husband. It is worn from lack of use, but the sound is no less ethereal.

The bard pulls himself to his feet and barely takes a breath before launching into a tangent.

"However could you keep this from me?" He cries. "The babe of a blessed saint— don't raise your brows in such a manner, you'll wrinkle that gorgeous face— you carry a cherub, I've no doubt. I will craft a lullaby to put all others to shame, I will sing songs of this babe across the Continent and back again—"

It takes him three days to find the words. Sara of Blackwater weeps, and Beastie watches from her heels as he departs.

—

"May you sail fair,
to the far fields of fortune.

With diamonds and pearls
at your head and your feet—

And may you need never
to banish misfortune;
And may you find kindness
in all that you meet.

Be the gods ever watchful,
to guard you and keep you
veiled far from harm's way.

May you bring love,
and may you bring happiness;
May you be loved in return
to the end of your days.

Now fall off to sleep,
I mean not to keep you.

I'll just sit for a while and sing.

Be the gods ever watchful,
to guard you and keep you
veiled far from harm's way."