And Then That Word Grew Louder

Ciri had always looked forward to Julien's visits.

He had first appeared at court when she was four. Her grandmother hadn't been pleased. She almost had Julien imprisoned when he'd walked into the castle, worried about that witcher showing up. Even though no one was meant to talk about it around her, Ciri knew even then that that witcher was going to show up one day and steal her away.

But Grandmother didn't imprison Julien. He had said something to her – Remember your roots, Calanthe of Cintra, and that who watered them – and it made her mouth go tight and small. They'd moved to Grandmother's private rooms then, so Ciri didn't know what was said, but by the end of it, she had a new music tutor.

He came every winter. After the first snows, he would appear in court – Ciri could never convince him to tell her how he did it – armed only with his lute and a song. His very presence seemed to warm the castle better than a raging bonfire, and when he left (a week before the end of winter proper), it was like he took all that warmth with him.

Julien would always bring gifts for her, little trinkets from across the Continent. A small notebook, perfect to hide under her pillow, decorated with a snarling lioness. A posy of pressed flowers, and seeds so that she might grow them herself in spring. A bracelet of woven threads, silver and blue and green, from Skellige. But during her 8th winter, after the passing of her mother, Julien gave her a most precious gift.

They had just finished her lesson for the day. Julien had convinced her bodyguard (a stern woman named Beatrice, who slipped her sweet meats and patted her head when she had nightmares) to let them practise on the battlements, in a little used area. Julien always took every opportunity to enjoy the brisk winter breeze. He never wore anything but a light cloak over his doublet, but never seemed cold. Indeed, when she cuddled close to his side after pushing away his lute, the very air around her seemed warmer.

"Dear one," He began slowly, "I have a gift for you."

"Another one?" She asked, looking up, "But you already gave me a gift." It was a beautiful pin for her hair, made of gold and deep red stone, carved and twisted into the shape of a bird taking flight. Grandmother had a pinched look on her face when she saw it but approved of Ciri wearing it with her bright red dress at the feast tonight.

"Well, yes, but this is a different gift. A special gift." He tugged something out of his pocket, wrapped in a piece of black velvet. "Here."

Inside was a simple necklace. On the silver chain was a tear drop shaped glass pendant. Trapped inside the pendant was a tiny piece of something red. Ciri squinted to see it through the curved glass. "What is it?"

Julien laughed and took the pendant back, swinging it around her neck a moment later. The chain was long enough for the pendant to hide under her dress. "It's a very special necklace, Cirilla."

The use of her full name made her stop playing with the tiny tear drop and look up again. Julien rarely used her full name – always dear one, or little one, or little lioness. "How special?"

"The special-ist." He whispered. "I want you to always wear this Cirilla – never take it off." When she went to protest, Julien shook his head. "No, I've already spoken to the Queen about this and she agreed. I need you to promise me that you'll never take this off. Ever."

"But why?" She was becoming scared now. Julien was meant to be nice and funny and happy, always smiling and playing his lute, writing silly songs to make her laugh and pretty lullabies to help her sleep. He wasn't meant to be serious.

"Because Destiny can be rough, dear one, and it doesn't care who it hurts as long as things go its way. I want to make sure that, no matter what happens, you'll be safe." Julien said. He tapped at the tear drop she was still holding, making it ring like crystal. "This pendant means that you're under my protection. It has a little piece of me in it – if you're ever in trouble, I want you to hold it and call my name. No matter where I am, I'll hear you and come to your side."

"Julien?" She asked. Bringing the pendant closer to her face, she could just see how the red scrap was flat and kinda fluffy, skinny on one end and wide on the other. After a moment of twisting it back and forth, she could see a kind of shine on it, like it had been coated in gold dust. It looked a little bit like… "A feather?"

He huffed and tapped her nose. "Yes, a feather. And…" here, Julien looked almost sad. "I'm going to tell you something you can't tell anyone else. If your Grandmother knew I told you, I might not be able to come back."

Ciri immediately grabbed onto the arm still wrapped around her waist. "No! I promise I won't tell – you can't go away forever!"

"I'll never truly leave you little one, I promise," Julien squeezed her back, "But your Grandmother doesn't like my true name, even if she knows it, so you can't tell her."

"Okay. What's your true name?"

And then he leaned closer. When he whispered it into her ear, she felt the pendant in her hands heat up.

"Jaskier."

Jaskier.

Jaskier.

"JASKIER!" Ciri screamed, hands pressed against Geralt's side. "Oh please, Jaskier, I need your help, please!" She scrambled for one, desperate moment for her pendant – the pendant she'd never taken off in the five years she'd owned it. "JASKIER!"

Underneath her, Geralt groaned and tossed his head. "J-jask…?"

"It's going to be okay Geralt, you're going to be okay." She rambled. In the back of her head, she heard the voice of her Grandmother berating her – a ruler is always composed Cirilla. "We just need – Jaskier, where are you?!"

It had been Nilfgaard, it was always Nilfgaard – always trying to take the people precious to her – but she wasn't going to let them succeed.

"JASKIER!"

She had only just found Geralt, and now she was going to lose him. They hadn't even been looking for her – they were a scouting party (and in the back of her mind, she thanked the Elders that it was just a scouting party) who had stumbled into their path. Geralt had dealt with them all, but he hadn't come out of it unscathed. No man may equal a witcher, but thirty men on horses came close.

It was all her fault. If they hadn't been looking for her, if Geralt hadn't come and found her, if she hadn't ridden away with Roach instead of standing her ground and fighting like the queen she was meant to be -

"Not your fault, little lioness," A voice gasped out behind her, "And Geralt won't be leaving you any time soon."

She spun around, hand falling from the now bloody pendant to her dagger (Julien's gift for her tenth winter) to see the man himself standing there. A bright red doublet sat loosely on his shoulders. There were dark shadows under his eyes. His skin was pale and stretched over his cheekbones. Soot was streaked across his forehead and coated his hands, stained his breeches and shirt. His hair was lank and sweaty. He wasn't wearing any shoes.

"Jaskier!" Citi went to run to him – to leap into his arms like she had done very time he came to court – but a groan drew her attention back to the situation at hand. "Jaskier, Geralt's hurt!"

He stumbled forward and fell to his knees at her side. When his hands hovered over the largest wound, they shivered. That, out of everything, unnerved her the most. They had always been steady.

"We need to move him." Jaskier said after a moment. "We're too exposed here." With a grunt, he pulled Geralt into a sitting position. He glanced up at her. "Do you mind grabbing some bandages out of Roach's saddlebags? Once we've stopped the bleeding, we can get out of here."

As if in protest, Geralt shifted and squinted, a sliver of amber between pale eyelids. "Jas-Jaskier? What are you…?"

Jaskier smiled, but it was small and thin, not reaching his eyes. "I'll be out of your hair soon enough, dear witcher. Ciri darling, Roach?"

Ciri hadn't even noticed the horse, still standing where she'd left her in the mad dash to get to Geralt's side. Her flanks were streaked with sweat. While she soothed her, unknotting the reins from where they'd fallen around the saddle, Jaskier wrapped bandages around the worst of Geralt's wounds. Several cuts snuck through gaps in his armour, a large gash up one thigh where a fallen soldier (fallen, but not dead) had tried to hamstring him but missed, a slice over his eyebrow dripping blood down his forehead and into his hair. When the wound across his stomach – the largest and most life threatening – immediately bled through the bandage, the bard pulled off his doublet and used it as extra padding, binding it to the witcher with his own weapons' belt. At least, Ciri thought hysterically, you can't see the blood through all the red anyway.

Geralt moaned and slumped forward at one strong tug of the bandage, pressing his nose against Jaskier's shoulder. "Jask – you're – why're you… Ciri, where…" His eyes were open wider now, but unseeing.

Ignoring him, the bard hook one arm under Geralt's and the other around his hips. "Alright, up you get." With a grunt, Geralt was on his feet for all of a second before slumping against Jaskier's chest. Bright blue eyes turned to her. "Mind bringing Roach a little closer, dear one?"

Getting Geralt onto the horse was an ordeal. It involved a lot of swearing (which Jaskier asked her, breathlessly, to never repeat in Geralt's hearing) and pain, given how Geralt keened as his injured leg was guided into the stirrups. Ciri shuddered. She never wanted to hear that noise again.

Once Geralt was more or less in the saddle, slumped over Roach's neck in the sweet embrace of unconsciousness, Jaskier held his arms out to her. "Alright dear one, your turn."

"What?"

"Someone needs to ride with Geralt to make sure he doesn't fall off." Brushing away her protests – Jaskier looked like he needed a ride more than she did and he didn't have shoes – he swung her onto the back of the saddle.

With a click of his tongue, they were off. Ciri didn't know where they were going nor did she particularly care. She was more worried about the new wounds she could see on Geralt's back, and Jaskier, who was stumbling as he ran beside Roach deeper into the forest.

"Ju-Jaskier… what happened to you?" Asking that first question opened the gates to more, and Ciri was helpless to stop the words from falling out of her mouth. "How did you get here so fast – why are you covered in soot – you look so tired – are you hurt – where are your shoes –"

"Dear one," Jaskier began, cutting her off, "It's a very long story. Right now, I just want to get away from those soldiers and somewhere I can treat Geralt's wounds." He refused to look up at her. His hand on Roach's reins was white knuckled. Even as she watched, his grip grew tighter.

The skin split.

Ciri cried out, shocking Geralt into consciousness, looking around as much as he could against Roach's neck. "Ciri, what – where –"

Jaskier looked down at his hand, where dull red (and gold?) was flaring from the split in his knuckles, and sighed. He reached up in between strides, patting her leg with his healthy hand. "It's okay little one, nothing that can be worried about right now." His hand moved to Geralt then, rubbing at the fingers that tangled in Roach's mane. "Not much longer, dear heart. Almost there."

There seemed to be a small clearing near a stream that bubbled merrily as Jaskier helped Ciri down from the saddle. She caught his hurt hand before he could pull away and ran her thumb over the cut.

She flinched.

It felt… soft? Like feathers.

Jasker pulled his hand away and pressed it against her face. "I'll answer all your questions when you're safe, little one." Her murmured.

Ciri nodded unhappily. She could only watch as he reached up towards Roach's saddle. She expected him to pull Geralt own, maybe try to wake him up first to make the dismount easier, but all he did was pull out an empty water skin.

"Jaskier, what –"

"Shhh!" Ciri flinched at the harsh hiss, and Jaskier looked at her apologetically. "Sorry little one, but I need to concentrate. Remember, questions once you're safe."

At her confirming nod, Jaskier quickly filled the skin before returning to her side. He took a deep breath. From the depths of his chest came a low hum. It seemed to vibrate through the air into her bones. It reminded her a little of her own… powers, that chaos that ran through her veins. But it wasn't intimidating, it was almost warm. No, it was warm! The air hadn't been very cold to begin with, but now Ciri was starting to sweat. Jaskier's humming grew in pitch, rising and falling within the higher octaves till it was more like a trill, or a whistle, and Ciri started. She recognised that tune! Jaskier had sung it to her when she got sick one winter! He had spent the night by her side, giving her water and laying cool cloths over her forehead, and when she'd woken up that morning, she'd felt a lot better. He'd serenaded her over breakfast, a ditty in celebration of your health, he'd called it.

Then she noticed – Jaskier didn't have her lute.

The bard, still humming, held the water skin near his face.

Ciri stared.

Crystalline tears were running down his face. Looking closer, she could tell that the tears were actually crystal, with facets and everything, solidifying the second they escaped his half open eyes. When they dropped into the water skin, they chimed. Her fingers scrambled for her necklace. Ciri's eyes flickered from the still falling tears to the pendant. It's been smoothed, but it's still the same shape… she stepped closer, pressing against Jaskier's side. His humming didn't falter, but a smile flickered across his lips as he glanced down. The red and gold feathers emerging from his wound, and the tiny scrap of red in her necklace… Jaskier's feathers were much duller, almost dusty, but still…

The humming trailed off, but the heat remained. Jaskier sighed and lowered the water skin. He looked even more drawn now, with pale blue veins visible up his neck. His body wracked with shivers.

Ciri wrapped her arms around his waist with a cry. "Jaskier, are you okay?" Obviously he isn't, she berated herself as soon as the words left her lips, people don't just shake like they've got the auge!

Jaskier didn't answer, instead swirling the water skin around. She expected to hear the chimes of the tears hitting the side, but there was nothing but the swoosh of water. "Help me give this to Geralt," He said after a moment. His voice was hoarse.

Help, it turned out, involved Ciri being put back onto Roach and helping lean Geralt into an upright position. Under Jaskier's direction, she carefully helped the witcher drink about half the water before leaning him back down. The rest apparently was for her.

"Drink some of that – it'll help."

She held it to her lips, but hesitated. "Shouldn't you drink some?"

Jaskier shook his head with a mirthless smile. "Unfortunately, it doesn't work on me."

The water tasted fresh and cool, like it had just come from the courtyard well in the middle of winter. It warmed her up from the inside, bringing relief to the pains she didn't even know she had – an ache in her legs from the harsh riding, a couple of bruises from the invasion that hadn't quite healed yet…

When Jaskier reached up to take it back, his sleeve slid down. The skin up his forearm split. More of those feathers – faded red and dull gold and browning orange, like leaves in the middle of Autumn – emerged from the torn skin, rustling a little in the breeze. He met her concerned gaze. "Don't worry about it, little lioness. I'll be alright."

Any protests Ciri was planning was derailed by Geralt's groan. He shot upright in the saddle, almost knocking her off if it wasn't for Jaskier's supportive hand. "Where – Ciri, where are –" He swung his head from side to side, breathing deep, before hunching over his stomach.

Ciri pressed her hands against his shoulders. "I'm right here Geralt. We're with Jaskier, he helped us!"

"Jaskier…?" Geralt looked up – slowly this time – and turned to meet the bards' eyes. His hand reached back to take hers. Jaskier, she noticed, had tucked his hurt arm behind his back.

"Geralt." He said with a nod. "I didn't mean to inconvenience you with my presence, but I swore to protect Cirilla, and she asked me to help you." His voice was cold and distance in a way she'd never heard.

Geralt flinched. "Jaskier, how do you know Ciri?" This close, Ciri could see how the scrapes on his back had stopped bleeding. Wiping away the half-dried blood, she saw a wound that was steadily shrinking.

His smile was thin. "You are not the only one bound to this Destiny, Geralt. I didn't think it fair for your Child Surprise to bear the punishment for other's actions." Jaskier shook his head. "Anyway, we need to be going. I assume you're headed towards Kaer Morhen?"

Geralt nodded slowly. "It's the only place Nilfgaard won't find her. Jaskier, why –"

"So you need to get there fast." Jaskier didn't seem inclined to let Geralt get a word out – indeed, he barely seemed to care for the witcher. Very different from how he acted when Geralt was unconscious, Ciri noted.

"Yes, but I can't find Yen –"

"Yennifer was involved in the Battle at Sodden Hill. She's not up to portalling anyone anywhere, if that's what you're going to suggest."

"Is she alive?"

At the desperation in Geralt's voice, Jaskier softened. "She's alive Geralt. Hurt, tired, weak and pissed off, but alive."

Geralt slumped a little in relief. His wound didn't seem to be hurting him as much anymore. Something that he was quick to notice, running a hand over the doublet still wrapped around his middle. "Jaskier, how did you find us? I wasn't – I wasn't expecting to survive that."

"I wasn't exactly going to give you a choice," Jaskier's voice became cold again, "You have a responsibility now Geralt, and I'm not going to let you shirk it like you have for the past thirteen years." He looked like he was going to say something else, but he shuddered before he could. There was a faint sound, like tearing fabric, but when Jaskier hunched over, his shirt was intact. Barely. The fabric at his shoulders and ribs stretched, and something red pressed at it from the inside. A tiny feather was snatched up before it could hit the ground.

"What is going on?" Geralt sounded like he was a moment away from getting off Roach and making Jaskier explain.

"No time." Jaskier said shortly. "Geralt, I need you to imagine the keep. Hold the image as tightly in your mind as you can."

"Not until you explain!"

"NO!" The sound Jaskier made wasn't human, high pitched like a screech. It blew back Ciri's hair in a wave of warmth. The tear up Jaskier's arm lengthened, more feathers pushing at the shirt. Geralt had finally noticed.

"Jas—"

"CAN YOU SEE THE KEEP?!" His voice was inhumanely scratchy, and while he wasn't speaking loudly, there was a definite force to his words.

When Geralt nodded mutely, Jaskier reached up and placed a hand in theirs. "Keep that image in your mind, dear heart," Jaskier whispered, "And if you ever trusted me – ever thought of me as more than an annoyance – please, don't let go."

There was a whoosh, like the sound of a water fall, or the rush of fire consuming new fuel, and then all Ciri could feel was a comforting, all consuming warmth, and all she could see was a world of red, gold and orange.

Author's Notes

Hi everyone! This is my very late submission for writer's month – and yes, it is more hurt than comfort, but I can promise at least one more chapter to close things off, and then I'm thinking of writing more prequel/sequel kind of things. I'll figure it out. Anyway, I decided to do this from Ciri's point of view, because I like Ciri's character. I hope I do her justice.

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