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It was freezing within the stone walls of Kaher Morhen. Blisteringly, bone-chilling, Jaskier could feel the cold in his very bones. His fingertips and toes curled into themselves to try to leech any bit of warmth they could from each other. He blew shakily into his palms.
He gritted his teeth and cursed, throwing his covers far from himself, he exploded from his meager bed. His frozen feet hit the solid floor painfully. He stormed toward the hearth, equally as cold as the rest of the room; having never been lit. He reached toward the kindling and the matches and held each in one fist. He threw the kindling into the hearth and with an aborted movement drew a match from its box. He held it before him like a weapon, like a threat to the hearth. He drew in a short breath through his nose, then another, and another. His hands shook. He closed his eyes and struck the match.
With a gasping hiss, the fire exploded to life. The light blew behind his closed eyes, but as soon the heat, meager as it was, reached his fingers, he gave an aborted scream and dropped the match. He staggered back until he hit the far wall and slid down it. He sat cold and gasping until he finally opened his eyes and stared at the offending flicker of color.
Memories flooded him, burning, pain, desperation.
He squeezed his eyes shut and took a deep breath. He opened his eyes back to the dark room. He gulped and gritted his teeth. Slowly he crept toward the match box and picked it up, nearly crushing it in his fist. He breathed harshly through his nose and drew out a single match. With shaking hands he moved to strike it and paused.
Fear choaked up his throat. It settled in his joints, his limbs growing heavy, immovable. Harshly, he bit his tongue and his hand continued the movement.
The match hit home, and once again gasped to life. His eyes reflexively closed at the sudden burst of light, but opened a moment later when he felt the heat in his fingertips. He forced himself to hold it as he stared at the flickering color. Beautiful as it was. Jaskier might have written poems about fire in the past, but he had felt its cruelty and power all to recent.
He watched the flame eat the wooden stick, slowly making its way down to his fingers. He never let it reach. He waved out the match and threw the carcass into the hearth with a bitter sigh.
He stood and wrapped himself in the few furs he was given and resigned himself to another sleepless night. He paused at his door, his hand on the knob and turned back. Swiftly he grabbed the lute that had been given to him by Yennifer not three days before and walked out.
It had been quit a shock when she had held it before her like a shield, refusing to look into his face. Only saying, “It is my thanks to the Sandpiper,” before promptly marching away.
Now in the deep of night, in the depths of cold, he clutched the lute to his chest as he made his way through the dark halls.
It was silent, everyone having gone to sleep. He walked, feeling somewhat aimless, simply feeling the stone on his bare feet.
He wondered until he arrived at a bright strip of moonlight streaking out ahead of him. He went to the balcony open to the night and wandered onto it. He shivered a bit, but the cold felt more bracing as he had been moving than just laying in bed.
He basked in the moonlight and sat down. He shifted his lute into his lap and strummed. It sounded as clear and crystal as the night air. Becoming more comfortable, he began to sing.
Eskel blearily blinked his eyes open. He propped himself up on one arm and listened for a moment.
There.
It was a soft voice, gentle and soulful. Like the pull of a string he stood and followed the sound.
Lambert jerked awake, near violently. He fought with his blankets for a moment before the sound of a voice drifted through his window. He stumbled out of bed, rubbing his eyes and staggered toward his door. He yanked it open to go find the source.
Vesemir had been reading in the main hall when he heard it. The soft crooning. Quietly and with grace, he blew out his candle and closed his book. Following the voice he arrived to find Lambert, Eskel, and Yennefer standing in a hallway bathed in moonlight.
Keep your words on ice
Your gaze lights the fire
They say keep on playing nice
But I have no desire
He rounded the corner and saw the bard sitting with his legs crossed his lute sitting in his lap. He strummed gently, his voice a clear bell of sound in the night.
Why waste our words
When lips were made for extraordinary things
It’s not a want, it’s a need
It is paying no heed to what others say to sing
Vesemir’s eyes roved to his son’s and the witch. Eskel’s eyes were shut, listening intently while Lambert’s eyes were wet, the threat of spilling over imminent. The Witch’s face was stoic, but there was a depth of emotion behind the mask that he could not quite parse. Behind her, he could see the young princess slowly walking towards them; her head tilted, listening.
The greatest songs are made up of unspoken words of love
Of them I have had enough
With you, I have enough
With you, I am enough
I am enough
As he sang he stood, gracefully and in one fluid motion. His eyes shut in feeling as he began to slowly pace the length of balcony, playing as he went.
Drop the sweet disguise
Your heart’s beating too loud
The fairy tales and little lies can’t drown out all the sound
Jaskier sang through gritted teeth, with feeling drawn from his very soul. Vesemir could feel it. The utter, and complete longing he felt. It ached in his heart in a way he had not felt since he was a much younger man. From the looks of everyone else in the hall, they could feel it too.
So take this heart and break this heart
For extraordinary things
It’s not a want, it’s a need
It is paying no heed to what others say to sing
His voice was colored by a desperation only felt by a man in love. He made a final pass around the balcony and sang the final toward them, eyes still closed.
The greatest songs are made up of unspoken words of love
Of them I have had enough
With you, I have enough
With you, I am enough
I am, I am enough
As he sang the final chorus from his very soul, he opened his eyes and gasped. He stumbled back and sputtered, finally realizing he had an audience. Meanwhile, Ciri rushed forward and wrapped her arms around him with a sob.
“Jaskier,” she cried, “that was so, so beautiful. It was like I could feel what you were feeling.”
Yennefer walked up beside her a hand on her hip, wiping a single tear away.
“It wasn’t like we could feel what you could; we did feel what you do,” she said, sounding far more accusatory than she meant.
“I-I don’t – I’m not sure,” Jaskier sputtered, confused and embarrassed.
“Yeah, Bard, what the hell was that?” Lambert demanded.
Vesemir stepped up with a hand on his son, “Perhaps we should return to bed, and we’ll discuss this in the morning.” He ushered the others away until it was just him and Jaskier standing alone.
“It was a beautiful song, Jaskier. I am sorry you bared your soul to us, as unintentional as it was.”
He sighed, “It’s alright, unintentional or no, it is what a bard does.”
“I suppose, but it’s hard to explain what we felt while you sang. Perhaps, a certain amount of longing and heartbreak that I have not felt since I was very young.”
Jaskier smiled and puffed his chest a bit, “that’s what good music will do. Bring forth those emotions you thought once buried.”
Vesemir shook his head, “No, we were feeling what you were, Jaskier. It was outside ourselves, like a layer of influence…” the old man shook his head and turned away back inside. “We’ll discuss this more in the morning. Goodnight, Jaskier.”
Jaskier looked down at the lute in his hands in awe, and perhaps a little afraid.
“Goodnight.”