Chapter Text
He had once held pride in his determination and grasp on hope. Hope for the little taste of freedom that lay outside the stone walls, bittersweet but refreshing. His hope for a different life had started dwindling after he came of age, as Jaskier had grown taller, sturdier, and more stubborn against his so-called family. His plans foiled, one by one, starting the morning of his 16th as his father strode in and carefully watched as maids upturned the room, collecting anything hidden, leaving his room almost as bare as an unused guest room.
Jewelry was kept away from him. His coin pouch was not to be seen again, no matter how many corners Jasier checked. Although he could snatch something grandiose and hideous from his mother’s collection, more guards followed him than ever before.
Jaskier thanks the Gods above his father found it in his so-kind heart to allow him to keep his instruments, even if it was for the sake of his father’s own sanity and image. If the Viscount had known his lute was his most prized possession, he surely would’ve taken it and used it as firewood.
Which brings him to where he is today, uncomfortable, dreaming of a life on the road as a bard, as his fingers numbly play the soft tune to a lullaby. Soft and sweet. Relaxing. The opposite of how the hand in his hair makes him feel and the expression on the chaperone’s face.
Bright blue silk with silver embroidery. Dancing on top of a table in a crowded pub. Tavern food and better company.
“Now you must hear this, Julie dear. Marchioness Catrin’s courting has been postponed for another season! Now what must be going on over there?”
The chaperone’s face stayed stone still across the room, straight backed in his chair.
Jaskier’s playing doesn’t falter.
Countess Herta of Sielce is undeniably an advantages match. As his father puts it, he’s lucky to get any interest at all, the third son of a Viscount that he is, with “an ungrateful attitude and an instability of mind”. If anything, the Viscount’s passive aggressive comments on intrigued her, and she seemed inclined to gain an additional pet in her mansion.
Jaskier’s attempts at sabotaging the forced union were met with looks of pity and fondness by the countess, as if he we a newborn pup still learning the use of its teeth. Bad manners, dirty clothing, missing flowers, and keeping mute did little to dissuade her; and his father only enjoyed attempting to correct his behavior in private with his whip. He eventually had stopped going out of his way to create a mess, the energy given to the effort was wasteful in its results.
“That Marquess of Dorian was dirt from the beginning! My advice is never taken, I’m ignored!” Herta draped herself back over the lounge she was resting on, delicately placing the back of her hand on her forehead. She tosses the edge of her long blood red gown in dramatics, draping it over his far shoulder.
“Julien, darling! Maybe once summer comes, we may travel to Tretogor for some luxury, glide through the Marquess’s mansion and down the river”.
Her fingertips glide down his upper arm, brushing off his shoulder with a cress. He continues plucking the strings of his lute, eyes focused on the chaperone’s shoes, his back is starting to ache from sitting cross-legged on the floor for the last hour or so.
Summer traveling. Once spring comes, he’ll be married on paper, primped by maids each morning, and bustled about like some sort of eye candy of a husband. The most perfect pet the countess has in her collection, able to sing, and strut, and produce an heir.
Jaskier knows the openings for freedom are closing as the leaves change color and fall.
He plays a little harder.