Chapter Text
“I’m working on a song,” Jaskier says. He’s admiring Filavandrel’s lute, strumming it on the other side of the campfire as Geralt sharpens his sword. When Geralt doesn’t respond, he continues, “It’s a song that’ll make spring come again.”
That makes Geralt look up. “It’s been at least a hundred years since I’ve seen a spring or fall. You think singing will be enough to reverse it?”
Jaskier’s eyes suddenly brighten. He sets down his lute and leans forward. “That’s right! Of course! A Witcher like you, you’ve seen spring and fall before haven’t you? What is it like?” Geralt ignores him. Jaskier keeps prodding. “Go on! I’ve only ever read about the four seasons in books. They say that all the flowers bloom in spring, that meadows come alive and birds sing like never before. And in fall, the golden leaves of trees stay on for weeks, turning the land golden and crisp.” He sighs dreamily.
“Monsters are more aggressive in spring and fall. Spring is mating season, and they’re all looking for food in fall before the snows set in.”
Geralt expects the bard to look disappointed by the bland information, but he just grins. “Never the romantic, are you, Geralt? That’s alright, that knowledge is plenty. You know, though, even if the fair weather brings out the monsters, I still want to see all the seasons. Going from burning heat to freezing cold every year… I can’t even imagine months of milder weather, with the world coming alive.” Jaskier picks up his lute again and begins idly strumming it. Lost in thought, he’s silent for the rest of the night. He doesn’t say more about the song he’s working on, and Geralt doesn’t ask.
-
The first time Geralt hears the song, he’s returning from a kikimora hunt. Despite the thick forest canopy, the heat hangs heavy in the air. Sweat drips down his brow as he carries the kikimora head back to camp. He’s almost there when he hears a haunting melody echoing through the trees. For a second, he almost wonders if a siren’s made its way into the forest, but then he recognizes the trills of Jasker singing over the music. It’s so startlingly beautiful that Geralt stops for a moment. He listens as the music drifts through. Somehow, the leaves suddenly seem greener, and the heat less oppressive. Then, the music stops. The moment ends; a figment of imagination, surely. Geralt shakes his head and keeps moving.
Jaskier is frowning critically at his lute when Geralt arrives at camp. Geralt drops the kikimora head unceremoniously, startling Jaskier into looking up. As soon as he sees him, Jaskier leaps off the log and rushes over. “Geralt! Melitele’s tits, you look dreadful. Are you hurt anywhere?”
“No.”
Jaskier kicks the head gingerly. “Lovely trophy as always. Let’s get you washed off before those entrails permanently dye your hair red. There’s a stream back over there.” Jaskier brusquely jerks his thumb back in its direction and promptly decides to lead Geralt to the stream anyway.
Geralt doesn't complain. The water’s refreshingly cool, and he takes the chance to refill his waterskin. After a few minutes soaking, Jaskier deems Geralt entrail-free enough to unload a vial of soap over Geralt’s head. Weeks of traveling together has taught Geralt that it’s easiest to entertain Jaskier’s strange whims, so he grudgingly allows it. As he sits at the edge of the river, Jaskier’s fingers lathering up the soap in his hair, he suddenly thinks of the music.
“I heard you singing,” he says.
Jaskier’s fingers pause for a second. He clears his throat. “I, ah, didn’t realize that you were that close. That’s alright, though. It’s just that I’m not done with that song. I can’t seem to get it right.”
“I heard it on the way back.” Geralt leans back on the river bank. Behind him, Jaskier obligingly shifts away. “Is that the one that will bring back spring?”
“You remember that?” Jaskier asks, delighted. Geralt can hear the smile in his voice. “But yes, that’s the one. You think it’ll be enough?”
“If singing was all it took to have good weather, farmers would have taken it up centuries ago.”
Jaskier falls silent. For a few moments, all Geralt can hear is the soap bubbling and the stream rushing along. When Jaskier speaks again, he changes the subject to a merry story about getting roaringly drunk at Oxenfurt and sneaking off to attempt cow tipping at a nearby farm. Geralt just listens, staring up at the clear blue sky.
-
Geralt stalks back into the inn room. He sits on the bed and begins repairing his shirt with more aggression than is strictly necessary. Downstairs, Jaskier is still performing for the dinnertime audiences. It’s still early in the night, but Geralt soon hears the tell-tale sounds of Jaskier ending his performance, the good-byes and affectionate laughter of a crowd sad to see a bard go. It quiets down quickly, and Jaskier’s footsteps begin bounding up the stairs.
Jaskier opens the door with much aplomb. He sweeps in and throws himself on the bed, watching as Geralt pulls the thread through the shirt. After a moment, he says, “Geralt, you’re hardly going to repair the shirt with that kind of attitude. Give it here, you’re more likely to tear another hole in it.” With gentle hands, Jaskier rescues the shirt. Geralt watches as Jaskier begins rhythmically pulling the needle through it with nimble fingers.
“You finished your set early.”
“Couldn’t continue it after seeing your grumpy face stomp through the doors.” Jaskier looks up at Geralt. “What’s got you in such a mood?”
Geralt grunts. “All the honeysuckle in the forest’s dried up. I need it for White Honey.”
A thoughtful hum. “There hasn’t been rain in weeks. Makes sense. What are you going to do, then?”
“I gathered some dried honeysuckle leaves. We need to find a mage to restore it.”
“Alright,” Jaskier says. “Mage it is. Now stop grumping, you look half constipated to death.” He settles into the bed with the shirt and begins singing as he sews. Geralt recognizes the tune.
“You still haven’t finished your song to bring back spring yet?” He grins wryly across the room.
Jaskier gasps in mock offense. “Hey! It’s not so easy to change the seasons, you know! This is a song that’ll take time to write! I’ve got to perfect it. You’ll still hear this one for a while yet.” Then he smiles back at Geralt. “But don’t you worry, I’ll keep writing my songs about you. Nothing could make me give that up.”
“Don’t trouble yourself.”
The next morning, Geralt’s packing up when he notices a flash of green at the bottom of his bag. He grabs at it only to pull out the glass bottle of dried honeysuckle leaves—except they’re no longer dried. Each leaf is vibrantly green, and they’re all smooth to the touch when Gerlat pulls them out. Unbidden, the memory of Jaskier singing in the forest rises to the front of Geralt’s mind. He doesn’t know why; it’s much likelier that the leaves were somehow restored through magic, and Jaskier’s music has none of that. The silence of Geralt’s medallion each time he sings is proof enough. Yet…
When Jaskier begins shifting in his bed, Geralt stands up. “Jaskier.”
“Mmrph?”
“Jaskier. The honeysuckle’s been restored.”
Jaskier lifts his head and squints over blearily. “And so it has. Did you go find a mage already?”
“No.”
Jaskier perks up a little. “Oh. Then what happened?”
Geralt hesitates. Even if something in his gut says that Jaskier’s song returned life to the leaves, it feels foolish to say it aloud. At last, he says, “Hmm.”
“Hmmm?” Jaskier blinks at Geralt indignantly. “You can’t just give me a mystery like that and then not say anything else!”
“Go pack. There aren’t any contracts in this town.”
Huffing, Jaskier does as he says. Geralt stares at him for a moment as he shoves clothes into his bag. There doesn’t seem to be anything strange about Jaskier. His hair’s a mess, and his clothes are rumpled. Nothing about him suggests the kind of power that Geralt suspects. He tries to put it out of his head.
-
Then Geralt’s hauling Jaskier’s limp body off of Roach, cursing his accidental wish. Then there’s a mage, and she’s hauntingly beautiful in a way that reminds Geralt of Jaskier’s song, but all Geralt can do is desperately request her help. He’ll never forgive himself if Jaskier dies, if he never sings again, if he never completes his song. Then he sees Jaskier recovering on her bed, and something in his chest loosens. Then, then, then… it’s a whirlwind of chaos and events that follow. A building crumbles, a djinn’s released, and Geralt’s bound himself the mage. Then they fuck, and Geralt wonders if the pull he feels to this mage after seeing her wish for power is a sort of love.
Still, as they lie in the rubble, Geralt can only think of a question that’s been at the edge of his mind for weeks. “Is there a spell that can bring back the seasons?”
Yennefer turns over and frowns at him. “The seasons?” She considers it carefully. Geralt can see her turning the idea over in her head, examining every side of it. After a few seconds, she shakes her head. “The amount of chaos it would take to change the weather for months each year would drain armies of mages. There’s no way to maintain such a spell, even if one existed.” Yennefer frowns at Geralt. “Why? You don’t strike me as a romantic that wants to see spring again.”
“The bard says he’s working on a song that’ll make spring come again.”
That makes Yennefer laugh, haughty yet as beautiful as ever. “A song? I’d like to see that.” She sobers quickly. “Still, if the bard could bring back spring… well. I doubt it.”
“Hmmm.”
Later that night, when Geralt and Jaskier are setting up camp, he tells Jaskier about Yennefer’s words.
Jaskier scoffs. “That insane witch? It’s hard for me to take the word of someone that tried to cut my dick off the first time we met. Anyway, Geralt, I’ve hardly got magic. It’s not a spell that I’m using to bring back spring, it’s a song. That witch can watch as I do it, too, see what she says then.”
“Hmmm.” Geralt crouches down to spark a campfire.
Jaskier flings out the bedrolls petulantly. That seems to calm him down, and he looks over at Geralt. “The way I want to bring back the seasons… have you ever heard the story of Hades and Persephone?”
“I’ve heard of Hades and Persephone,” Geralt says. “Gods in some far-off land. Don’t know of any of their stories.”
Jaskier settles down on his bedroll. “Well. There’s one that my mother used to tell me a lot. The story goes that Persephone was a goddess of spring, who lived on the green earth with her mother, Demeter. Then, one day, Hades came above and saw her. She was so breathtakingly beautiful that he whisked her down away into the underworld, his domain beneath the grass and dirt Demeter governed. Demeter demanded that he return her daughter, but Hades tricked Persephone into eating pomegranate seeds. That way, she could never fully escape the underworld. As a result, Hades and Demeter reached a compromise. For half the year, Persephone could live above the ground. During that time, Demeter would be so joyous that the world would spring into life, bring light and cheer to everyone. Then, in the other half, Persephone would return to her place as queen of the underworld. Demeter would be so distraught each time that the world would fall into a deep, cold slumber, and the halls of the underworld would grow crowded as Persephone ruled with Hades.”
Geralt grunted. “Sounds miserable.”
“Well, they say that Persephone really did love Hades, so it wasn’t so sad for her.” Jaskier shrugged. “There’s a thousand and one versions of the story, though, so it’s hard to say. Mother even said that she believes that it’s the love of Hades and Persephone that ultimately control the seasons, not Demeter.”
“All stories. They don’t exist.”
“I knew you’d say that, Geralt! ‘They don’t exist.’ Some of the first words you’d ever say to me!”
“You asked for them.”
“So I did, so I did. Still, I think… well, I wonder if it’s true. Maybe the seasons are like this because the gods have forgotten the song of their love. A song to remind them of it… that’d be the one to bring back spring and fall.” Jaskier grins at Geralt. The campfire illuminates his face in shadows, and something in Geralt feels strangely uneasy.
“You’d have to go to the underworld to sing to Hades and Persephone.”
Jaskier waves a hand dismissively. “A hurdle to cross when I’ve finished the song. Maybe I’ll sing so loudly that it’ll rouse the dead.”