bakerstreet | ( nursed back to health shipping meme. )

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( nursed back to health shipping meme. )

Nursed Back to Health

Comment with your character, preferences, preferred role, and any information you'd like to include.
Your character has either been injured/sick and had to be taken in (possibly against their will) or has been the one to help somebody like the former. Through the mending process, the two characters in a thread have fallen in love - or at least grown closer and more affectionate.
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Thread.

"The King is terrible and given to gambling," he explains quietly just in time to interrupt Aaron Bogg's attempt at thanks. The child, having overheard who they had belonged to, let out a shriek of delight and his brother had to scoop him up as he babbled about it.

"Did you hear, they're the King's! I have the King's cards!" Aaron cried, all delight and wonder. "Oh-oh-Izzy has them? Is it true, can we go now, Papa? Can we?"

Aaron Bogg had no worries for Jaskier's health and, to be fair, Jaskier didn't either. He couldn't hold his eagerness against him. The littlest Bogg was a good friend of his youngest cousin, here. Isolde Pankratz was a girl his age and one of the few cousins who wrote him regularly. Well, she drew to him. He wasn't certain she'd mastered all her letters yet.

She'd asked for a gift for Arnn's birthday, in so many letters, and Jaskier had obliged her.

"Thank you!" Aaron remembers, mid-way through his exuberant questions. His brother has a tight hold on him or else Jaskier is certain he would have tried to dive over and kiss his cheek. He seemed like the sort of chap who'd been taught to give gratitude like that.

That is such an outpouring of love in two words. Aaron does wriggle and his fingers lace together as though in desperate, pious prayer, lips puckered. A small, sweet boy would give thanks with kisses. Yennefer's heart crackles at the display. Yes, Middling Bogg's misstep (and steady gaze at her tits) has been forgiven.

"Steady on, m'boy." Elder Bogg frees a hand from the reins to try and settle Aaron back. His older brother has to hold him as he would a large fish

"Papa! Please! Can we go to Izzy right now?"

The cart slows and old Bogg with his rotted teeth turns as much as he's able. "Your ladyship and good sir be minding?"

Yennefer had many littler siblings. Older too that worked the field and slaughtered the pigs. The small ones lived in the house. She lived in the house for a time. None of the small ones had Aaron's hair or eyes. Though in that instant this young boy is all of them and herself. They deserved so very, very much. "I don't mind. Jaskier?"

Jaskier's expression is pained but, by all rights, it ought to be anyway. He looks at Yennefer, as she readily agrees, and his fate is sealed. He doesn't have it in him to refuse childish excitement, even if it will mean a night or two of mild misery for him. He sighs and the sound aches through his face. His grimace is unrelated.

"Of course not," Jaskier tells them brightly and runs over the last few days in his mind.

He'd left an array of gifts for his cousins when he'd traveled through. He'd greeted the staff at the house, had left them with the woman who ran the house, and had managed to miss both his cousin Iris and her dullard of a husband in the process. That had, of course, meant that he missed all three of his little cousins...but he took heart that he'd left them something.

At the very least, uncomfortable as this trip would be, he could see their little faces again.

"As you like, Good Sirs Bogg," Jaskier said and let his eyes close. Iris would be livid with him. He'd brought her children toys that made noise.

Clouded with pained and weary there's that exuberance shining through. Had she any idea of what additional discomfort this decision would bring she would have put more thought into this decision. The heart of a sorceress is a wild creature, starved and acting on impulse. The impulse to see small, happy children and the way Jaskier only makes them shine brighter. Low energy from travel and rapid healing has made her less critical. Or perhaps laying against the tree and hearing him speak fondly of his family has made her want a sample. Yes, Jaskier and Yennefer's fate in Redania is sealed.

Yennefer shifts closer as the wooden wheels of the cart clunk over to cobblestone. "Is this where you offer me one of your kin in payment?" She's joking, speaking softer so as not to startle young Aaron. The boy goes in extremes, now that he appeared it would be a shame to frighten him back to silence. Elder Bogg whistles to the horses.

Aaron is almost sitting. He his all but chanting, "going to see Izzy! Going to get a prezzie!"

The journey to the manor is slow going but Jaskier knows the ways the roads dip, the way they even out and the tracks settle deep as they approach. His eyes close and he lets out a huff as the sun crawls higher.

They can hear the manor before they arrive. It isn't a small building--three stories, crafted of fine hewn stone and grounds manicured meticulously around it. There are a dozen shouting voices and Jaskier recognizes half of them. It isn't until he hears the high pitched squeal of Isolde that he opens his eyes again.

"ARN!"

She charges up to the cart as they slow and, at her heels, he can hear her brother--Tristan. He pushes up on his elbows and, jogging behind the pair of them, he spies the eldest daughter--Marta as well. She spies him first and her hands fly up to her face, covering everything but her wide green eyes. The other two don't see him, not as they charge to the Boggs at the front of the cart, but they are all of a look.

The Pankratz family is all blonde and brunette, fair haired and with curls. The two youngest are six and eight, the eldest is perhaps thirteen. They each wear blue and gold, decked in lace, with shoes polished and stockings done up. Two have green eyes and Isolde, little dear that she is, has the same blue as Jaskier.

"Julian!" Marta shouts and, to a man, everyone outside the house looks at him. He wheezes a laugh and waves.

A family of title would have an fine estate. Yennefer has seen castles, keeps and manors. She can see top levels of the mansion above her. Wealth with title? That is also a possibility. No words from her, she just observes. The sun hanging over head. Some of the windows are framed in glass, stylish and expensive. A curious choice though a better look around it makes more sense. The hedges are shaped in squares, trees carved to cones and spires. It's strange to behold though when cost is not an object, whims are played out.

Elder Boggs slows the cart. Scampering feet with the hoots and shrill voices. "Ello there, lords and ladies. Wee Boggs is a'callin'." Aaron is doing his fish impression and his brother gives in, stepping out of the cart. The little boy runs to Izzy and the two children embrace as though they had not seen each other in sometime.

Middling Boggs sighs and gets the reins to hold the horses. He is going to be sixteen in the winter and not a child, therefore he does not smile at Marta when in the noise she bobs her head hello. Marta screws her little mouth at him and decides to ignore him.

"Julian! Welcome! I knew you'd be here again! I said you would come back to call soon! Didn't I tell you, Tris?" Marta is tall and aware of it, she still tries to move and speak like a lady though her glee is making it very hard to remain that way.

Tristan is trying to climb the cart wheel to peer inside. He is able to do so with more ease than a boy with lace and hose should. "Come out, Julian! I didn't doubt Marta any!"

"He did! He so did!" Marta sticks her tongue out at Tristan. He is up high enough to be level with her face.

"Good day to you all," Yennefer is not sure how or where she will fit in. A hello is a grand place to start. Marta blanches because she did not see her just yet. Her dark hair is visible after Jaskier's.

The servants scurry. Someone must tell Lady Iris. A bed must be made. Water must be drawn. Footman come from the carriage house to aid Jaskier. The Boggs, save for Aaron, try to stay cool in the sudden burst of activity.

The flurry is exactly what he would have liked to avoid but, ultimately, it is inevitable. The Boggs realize, to a man, that they have Julian Pankratz in their cart--he can see Boggs the elder knows the family structure well enough to know where he sits in it. He removes his cap as Jaskier pushes himself to stand uneasily on the cobbled stones of the manor drive.

Tristan babbles excitedly, arguing with Marta even as he comes rushing around to wrap his little arms around Julian's middle--Isolde is distracted by Aaron and, for that, Jaskier is glad. She is not tall enough to grip him above the knee and his leg is still a mess of blood and bandage.

Marta waits for Tristan to grow tired of hugging--mostly. She grows impatient after a few moments and muscles the smaller boy away to throw her arms around his neck and drag him down. She kisses his cheek and stares at the mess of bruises that frame his nose.

Tristan is the one who addresses Yennefer first. He stares at her with wide eyes and a look of open scrutiny. Her dress is covered in blood--a rather poor look for meeting nobility--but she was with Jaskier. In the end, it seemed that outweighed any failings he found in her. He thrust out his arm, as he'd clearly been instructed to do, and announced himself in a bright clear voice.

"My name is Tristan Pankratz, fourth in line for the Duchy of Lettenhove, it is a pleasure to meet you, are you a bard also, you don't look like a bard, you look like a ragged muffin, that's what my mother says I look like after I play, were you playing? I think you were playing too rough."

The embrace of the two Prankratz children carries on for some time. They missed their dear Julian. Marta's green eyes are wide. She knows there is a riveting story to be told here. The blood, the missing boot and a beautiful lady with her cousin. Her face has gone from a pale blanche to rose red.

Yennefer stands and finds herself pulled into the fold with young Tristan as the leader. Her violet eyes blink and yes, she has been scrutinized by many. There is something so very comical about a boy so small and opinionated. She the train of her dress and for what she can gather does a half curtsy for his grand introduction. "My good sir, thank you for your warm greeting." For what it was worth. "I am no muffin or bard. I have helped your cousin. He was hurt you see."

Tristan darts from Yennefer back to his cousin. Being close to the ground he is used to looking up. He spies the bare foot and wound bandage about his foot. "Perhaps he played too much, I cannot say."

Though this is an introduction. It is her turn. "I am Yennefer of Vengerberg." After would be whatever king or lord she was serving. She does not have one and has not had one for so very long. Usually it is enough. So she stoops and cups a hand over her mouth to whisper the word, "mage." And that is literally the magic word. Tristan's eyes go wide and he leaves her to tug at Jaskier's doublet.

The footmen have come and there is one at each elbow for Julian Pankratz to aid his step. "Cousin, do be careful!" Marta remembers she is trying to be a lady again and tuts in the way her mother would. "Let us all go to the house and settle"

Isolde who has been very content to plop into the grass with Aaron is the first to speak on the matter. "NO! Izzy and Arn are playing!"

Jaskier was, at once, in the thrall of his family and it was both deeply foreboding and comfortable, like sinking into a steaming bath inside an abandoned, ruined castle. Tristan has taken to trying to help him walk but, as he could not reach Jaskier's shoulder, dedicated himself instead to directing the footmen. The footmen--two chaps who Jaskier recognized only in passing, wore perfectly respectful, matching stoic expressions as they helped him limp toward the house.

Marta was distressed as Isolde refused to rejoin the group but, with a reassuring (if somewhat awkward) nod from the middling Boggs, she relented and left the two children to their cards. Neither knew how to play Gwent, nor did they make an attempt to try and play properly. They threw the cards down on the grass, seemingly in a random pantomime of other games, and argued good-naturedly about which one of them had one. Neither could actually read the cards themselves so, honestly, the debate was based entirely on the fine art scrawled onto the surface of the paper.

Jaskier would have gladly headed to the kitchens, he was quite fond of the downstairs staff at this manor, but there was nothing for it. He'd been announced and Marta was devoted enough to the pretense of her station that she wouldn't see him sneaking in through the back. They're led through the front doors--grand oak things with cut, leaded glass windows and fine stained-glass-work adorning the walls on either side. Jaskier almost grimaces at the opulence of them.

Iris had always taken exception to being second in line. She'd disliked Jaskier since they'd been children and, oddly, his absolute refusal to behave and adhere to his station, hadn't actually managed to endear her to him. He'd have handed over the Duchy in a second if his father would have allowed it. He had no interest in being a Viscount or any other such nonsense...and yet, despite how unfit he was, he had more standing than she did.

So she had made her house the envy of the region, second only to the Duke's. The foyer was a work of art, all carefully fitted wood floors and gilding. It was spotless, without a speck of mud or dust to be seen and every stone and wood surface was polished within an inch of its life. Iris Pankratz's home gleamed and Jaskier was in the unenviable position of being the wretch who was now trailing dirt and dried blood across her floor.

He sighed as Marta charged in ahead, smoothed her dress, and ushered in the staff. A half dozen maids and one valet greeted them silently at her urging. This was going to be a fucking nightmare.

"Julian." The voice was lilting and polite, even if it wasn't terribly warm.

The woman who came down the stairs to meet them was dressed in an afternoon gown. She clearly hadn't expected company and her expression was just pinched enough to communicate that. Iris wasn't so much pretty as she was severe--her features were fine and sharp, like a very expensive blade or a cut piece of crystal. She was nice to look at but, given the chance, one would not be surprised if she cut them.

Her children were the spitting image of her, if warmer and softer on all fronts. It was clear that she had been the one to dress the lot of them.

"You look dreadful," she reprimanded as she reached the landing and her gaze drifted to Yennefer at his side. She puzzled a moment, uncertain of how to greet the woman--but she was nothing if not a high society woman. Iris offered a polite smile and a nod of her head as she ushered them in.

"You and your companion must have had a terrible time on the road, can I offer either of you a drink? A new...gown? We still have a number of outfits of yours on hand, Julian, I'll send someone to fetch one. Do you need a healer?"

They made such a sight. The rolling green and high hedges of the estate concealed the sight from eyes aside from the family Boggs. Yennefer bent her head in thanks and had to rush after or else she would be left behind by the parade. Middling Bogg had a clumsy return, Elder Bogg a grumble. They would mind the littlest lady. Their Gwent game was clearly heated. High pitched hoots and laughter rang out. The scene tugged at her ribs. Sweet, small things. A footman did linger behind to escort her. They were a civilized people of course.

Staying in castles had meant that there was finery to behold. This was of a stock Yennefer had not yet seen much of. The most new and most pristine of homes held together with polish and varnish. Everything was eye catching. She wanted to linger but that would risk getting lost. She was able to catch up and be at the bard's side as close as a footman by the time they entered the main quarters of the home.

The grand foyer had mirrored panels that reflected not only the light but fragmented pieces of herself, the footman, Jaskier, Tristan and Marta. Beautiful and strange to behold. She felt the dirt almost fall from her to the marble, the pale shades of the house around her and floral shades of the children and the bard. She stood and an elegant stain of black pocked with red at her skirts and sleeves. This was not how she would want to present her self, not here and not anywhere. When she hears footsteps and the fine lady of the house descend, she now recognized what was hanging in the air unspoken by Jaskier or the servants. Dread.

"Mother!" Marta sputtered, now unsure of how to conduct herself. A host should not say such things, she knew. Though this was her mother's kin. Iris gave her child a look. Marta dropped her gaze and laced her fingers before her. Yennefer saw that she was a sensitive and prideful creature, trying to figure out herself.

Tristan was a young gentleman, yes, still a boy. He met his mother at the bottom step and reached for her hand. It was a clumsy gesture because his first impulse was to press his face to her hip and arms around her. Gods the both of them were trying so hard to be grown. They were not as young as Isolde, no. They were still children. What was happening in this home? "Mother, Julian has brought Yennefer of Vengerberg."

At her name, Yennefer returned the same measured smile and nod. "We have had an adventure, yes." Dreadful though? Heaven forbid that Lady Iris ever see what happens in a true battle. "A drink would be fine, please. Jaskier and myself are in need of rest." The phrasing expected of one that has been dropped on the doorstep. She cast a glance to the poor bard.

"I'm confident he will make a quick recovery."

Iris regards Yennefer placidly, her polite interest written in even shades over her face. She lets Tristan tangle his fingers with hers without complaint, but she doesn't bend and dote as Jaskier had. She lets him lead her down the last few steps and gives him an approving nod before reclaiming her hand.

"Thank you, Tristan." She crosses to meet Julian, her dear cousin, and both of them can see the warmth in her face is nothing if not perfunctory. She doesn't embrace him, but she does rest a hand on his shoulder briefly. Her glove is sullied immediately.

Everything about being here pains the bard--fortunately, with his face bruised nearly beyond recognition and his clothing stained with blood, his grimace is easily dismissed.

"Giles," Iris says over her shoulder and the valet standing by the maids stands at attention. "Have the ladies make up the southern rooms and see that someone fetches refreshments for my dear Cousin and his guest."

She turns her blue eyes, an unhappy parallel with Jaskier, onto Yennefer and withdraws her hand from Jaskier's shoulder. She doesn't question Yennefer's assessment of Jaskier's wounds for even a moment. There could not possibly be less concern on her face, but she does feign delicate apology well.

"It will be a few minutes before you will be able to retire, I'm afraid, but please make yourselves at home. I had no idea Julian was traveling through, but he is always welcome." There is no distaste in her face as Yennefer refers to him by his stage name, but it is a near thing. "Marta, my dearest, if you would take our guests to the drawing room? I shall go fetch your father and let him know about our wonderful new company."

Jaskier and Iris have similar colored eyes, a blue. On Jaskier it is a warm, endless sky. Iris has taken the color somehow to an arctic place. Removed, cold. Though Yennefer can tell that this was her countenance. Perhaps even her way of being a welcoming and friendly hostess. There are people that have accused Yennefer of having a heart of ice, they have not yet met Iris Pankratz.

"Thank you," was her fitting response. The exchange between cousins was not hard to miss at all. Jaskier doesn't need to speak any words. Yennefer was seized by a desire to touch him in that moment after the gloved hand fell away as if from it had come a ill omen. With a safe place to stay she would be able to rest and be able to restore him completely. A healer or surgeon are not needed when you have a mage.

Marta perked up immediately with being addressed and given a task. The sweet girl bows her knees to her mother and gestures with her arms. "This way, please."

"I'm coming too!" Tristan does not want to be forgotten in the moment. Iris straightened and cast him a look, a bit more pointed than the glance she gave to Marta moments ago. "I want to visit with Cousin Julian." His mother looked away and left them all to find the patriarch. Her retreating footsteps sounded and the air lost some of it's density.

Yennefer lightly cleared her throat and put out her arm. "Lead me then, my good sir." Tristan's green eyes opened wide and took her to his side.

"Cousin, what happened? Were you in a battle? Was it Nilfgaardians? Elves?" The energy and candid nature was still in them. Apparently it was a discouraged behavior. What a puzzle. Why would one stop children from being children?

Jaskier, if he did not have to limp and hobble with the help of the footmen, would have scooped Tristan up and propped him on his hip while he walked. It would have earned him a dark look from Iris and a worried look from Marta, but it would have been worth it. He could see echoes of himself in the poor boy, in the way he gripped and reached for his mother and was granted only the slightest affection.

He was partially at fault for that, he knew. Most of the family had seen the way his parents carried on and had blamed his lifestyle on their affectionate natures. The rest of the children had been raised in a dramatic pendulum swing in the opposite direction.

"My dear boy," Jaskier said, his voice suddenly as dramatic and warm as it ever was. Marta gave him a worried look over her shoulder but, despite herself, she walked a bit slower to be included in the sudden spectacle of his story.

"It was such a tale," Jaskier told him--he embellished, included gestures about dramatic sword fights, clever riddles, a whole host of brigands, and Yennefer featured heavily in his victory against the rogues. According to him, she opened up a yawning space in the air and dropped them all into the sea off Cintra.

The drawing room was just as pristine and carefully manicured as every other room in the house. It was blue and gold, all plush velvets and careful goldwork embroidery. It was a testament to the moneyed nature of the Pankratz family but it was also all new. Nothing was more than a generation old and that, above all else, marked just how little power there was in being the second through fifth in line for a duchy.

Jaskier grimaced as he dropped back onto the fanciest of the plush chaises--all the walking had his side and his leg aching fiercely. He was sure he'd started bleeding again and, as he propped his leg up on the upholstery--why yes, it appeared he was. Tristain jumped up alongside him, oblivious about the way he was doing his level best to stain the pricey furnishings. Marta seemed half aware but with each twist he spun about his and Yennefer's adventures, she seemed more and more bright eyed and eager. He caught her staring at Yennefer even as she darted to make sure the maids were bringing refreshments.

"And then! Oh, then, we sat and had a lovely picnic lunch," Jaskier said and Tristan was all but in his lap. "Why the lovely Yennefer shared her sandwich with me--which, of course, is a best practice. One never knows who is in truly dire need of a sandwich, after all--"

Tristan hadn't spared so much more than a glance at Yennefer as the tale unfolds. He was truly enraptured. "Brigands! Right outside!" The gift of song is similar to the gift of story. It's in the word, the measure and timing. Yennefer had been right there and she too was taken in to listen to "the truth" in their day. That life was her own as much as Jaskier's.

The drawing room feels like the inside of a teacup. Painted, lined in such finery and not a comfortable place to sit. The chaise the bard sat on had an ottoman and matching pillows. Yennefer, now free of Tristan sits at the ottoman. Marta shuffled closer and overcome throws her arms about Jaskier. "Oh Julian! I'm so very glad you are here! How frightened you must have been!"

"He was very brave indeed," Yennefer injected. She can't be bothered to save the chaise but her hand reached over to touch Jaskier's bare skin. Chaos hums below her fingertips and she sends a pulse to at least stop the bleeding and pain. No light radiated and no special incantation required. It was not much. The company was darling beyond reason and very distracting. It would do for now.

"And you, Lady Yennefer! Did you really catch the ruffians up in a net and threw them into the sea?" Tristan clutched his cousin's doublet and has settled as though this is where he shall stay.

The slow, serene smile that spread on Yennefer's face gives away absolutely nothing. There was no way that she would tell children that she cut a man's throat so that he bled to death slowly and she set men on fire. Capturing them and putting them out to sea was a comical, safe resolution. Why on earth would she challenge it? "That I did. They will sleep with fish if they haven't learned to swim."

"Oh my!" Marta buried her face against Julian's shoulder clutching one more time before she letting go. She straightened and looked candidly at Yennefer, dazzled that a woman could do such things. "Thank you for being with our Julian, thank you!" Her embrace was sudden, earnest. She smelled of clean cotton, fresh grass and mint. As tired as Yennefer was, she found strength to hold the girl in return This close Marta breathed in lilac and gooseberries.

Refreshments are wheeled in a small metal cart. The noise roused Marta to slowly let go. "You surely must stay until you are completely well again!"

"Oh, my dear," Jaskier starts before Yennefer can speak, despite her being the one Marta had addressed. "I will gladly stay the night, but I fear we are needed elsewhere--"

"I was unaware that bards were in such high demand."

Jaskier's face, open and cheerful around the children, goes obviously strained as the dulcet tones of the man of the house resound through the far doorway. The bard's arm shifts to drape over Tristan, making it a real trick of effort if the young boy wants to free himself, and Marta stands up straighter, dusting off the front of her frock.

"Oh, Hildebrand, Iris did say she was off to fetch you," Jaskier greets, his whole face going sunny in a truly put upon way. It is a cousin to how he used to address her--though he was never quite so openly hostile with the edges of his smile.

Hildebrand is the other half of the countenance of these children. He is tall, handsome, and insufferable. He is dressed very finely, more than is reasonable for a man in his station, and seems to disdain dirt and dust as much as his wife. He doesn't bother acknowledging either of the children as he moves to stand behind the chaise Jaskier is seated on.

"I'm surprised she found you so quickly," Jaskier tells him and Hildebrand's face goes a bit sour at some implication in that.

"She didn't," he corrects and looks from Jaskier to Yennefer, seated on the ottoman before him. His once over is at once confused and a bit disdainful. Before he can reprimand Jaskier for his rudeness, failing to introduce his companion, Marta jumps into the conversation with a curtsy and an introduction.

"Father," Marta greets very cordially, the kind of greeting that surely got her whatever praise her parents were willing to grant. "This is Lady Yennefer of Vengerberg, she's a traveling companion of Cousin Julian. She's saved his life!"

"Saved his life?" Hildebrand asks, both brows lifting and the unspoken 'Why?' lingers in the look he levels at Jaskier. But, for all his distaste for Jaskier, he is neutral toward Yennefer. He nods his thanks to her before he steps around the chaise to offer a proper bow.

"Then it seems we must thank you," he says cordially and with all the affect of a man who'd rather not, given the choice. "A pleasure, Yennefer of Vengerberg. I am Sir Hildebrand of Ostwick."

"Formerly, cousin," Jaskier interrupts and leans his bare foot to tap Hildebrand's very finely clad leg. The look that darts over the man's face is thunderous but also gone in an instant. Jaskier simply smiles.

"Yes, formerly of Ostwick," Hildebrand cedes and stands back up. He looks at Marta who has already stood to help fetch and oversee the distribution of drinks and tiny sandwiches. "I assume you've both been offered refreshments and lodgings, is there anything else I can provide?"

The children do try and behave accordingly. Though Tristan does not remove himself from the couch. He is sitting more like a small man than a young boy clamoring over his beloved elder cousin. Marta attempts to grow four more inches and years. The sight of it should be comical, instead it is a sad farce. Clearly they want ever so much to be doted and please their mother and father. Yennefer tries to keep the furrow from her brow and sneer from her lips. One cold parent is enough, two? Really?

Hildebrand walks with the grace of a man that has not lifted a sword. The way his hand remains up holding his silk and velvet plush coat to his chest, it seems he is not a studious man either. A man of breeding and fashion. Perhaps when Iris had seen him, she enjoyed the picture. He looks like such a man that would own such a house. Why her distaste has come up so quickly for him and her gaze as sharp as daggers can namely be attributed to the utter lack of concern for his life. Again, both sides of the coin of parentage. Why are both so vile?

"A pleasure to be sure, Sir Hildebrand." Watching Jaskier brush his foot against his trouser leg makes her cover a cough else she laugh her self silly. "Ahem! You have such beautiful children." And the words come through as a subject change, she means it with all her heart.

"Yes," Hildebrand agrees, his tone easy and quick, and then seems to realize just what he's agreed to. He recalls the children, glances from Marta where she stands bright and merry, to a sharp look at little Tristan, and then puzzles a moment. He stands upright, turns, and looks about the room.

"Marta," he starts with the impatient edge of a parent given to counting and then shouting. Jaskier goes hard, his shoulders set--it is the pose of a man ready to intervene. "Where is your sister?"

"Oh!" Marta exclaims and curtsies on reflex. "She's playing with--in the garden. I will go fetch her."

"She ought not be left alone," Hildebrand scolds her but, as he looks back, catches the look on Jaskier's face. They hold a glare for a moment and then Hildebrand relents. "Take her inside and have her ready for dinner."

Hildebrand smiles at Yennefer and it is more earnest than his smile at Jaskier. Which, frankly, is fine by Jaskier. He finds the man to be an insufferable fop.

"Take Tristan as well," Hildebrand adds and the little boy frowns but doesn't object aloud. He knows better than to whine to his father. Jaskier gives him a little squeeze and a smile before he sets him down on his feet.

"I shall leave you to your rest, Cousin, Lady Yennefer," Hildebrand says, at last, and then ushers his children out of the room before closing the door behind him.

The very instant he's gone, before the maid who brought the drinks and food in has even neared the other doors, Jaskier lets out the longest, most put upon groan he has ever let out in Yennefer's presence. If his eyes could roll back in his head, entirely, they would have.

The range of emotion displayed on the man's face is so morbidly fascinating. It's as if he has certain configurations and nothing more. And while yes, it is a compliment to their breeding there is no affirmation of the children's virtues or charms. She can't even stew long enough on how much it offends her because the man offers her smiles

Air returns to the room after they are alone once more. She startled at the first sound of Jaskier's sigh and rubs her hands over her face. "What have we fallen into? Who are these frightful people?" Why do they have such beautiful children wasted on them? At least she has the foresight to keep her voice down. The polished floors make footsteps carry forever.

She leans over the chaise and remembers that the sound could also be from agony. "Are you well? I have given you some strength for now. I cannot for awhile more but I may have another potion or tonic in my bag."

Jaskier's whole expression shifts to something vaguely pained, but confusion darts across it as she leans toward him. At once he leans for her, his hands reaching to grab hers between them. He nearly swings himself off the chaise in the process and has to do a rather ungainly sort of backward lean to keep from falling.

"I am fine, it is fine, please don't worry yourself--" Jaskier assures her and the edges of exhaustion start to creep across his face. The story he'd told to Tristan and Marta was a long one and, frankly, he'd spent all but the barest scraps of his energy on it.

"I am just--" he starts and lets out another heavy, groaning sigh as he ducks his head to press it atop his hands and hers within them.

"This is why I do not travel as Julian, this is why I sing for my supper and spend not a coin of this fortune, nor stay in these places," Jaskier tells her very quietly, in a sharp stage whisper. The maid hears him but she is dutiful in her cleaning and, frankly, seems entirely unsurprised. He's the family's worst kept secret and they loathe him nearly as much as he loathes them.

"This will be miserable, I am so sorry," he adds and picks his head back up.

Jaskier does fling himself about regularly. Yennefer would not have bat an eye had she known what he had been through this day. Bleeding and mending his body was taxing to him. The story and this very dramatic outburst are hallmarks of his character, he should be more careful in this condition.

"Darling, please," both hands clasped together and pressing urgently to his palm. No chaos transferred, merely the enjoyment of touch. The children were begging for it, and their cousin was so very generous with embraces and kind words. Their exposed need kindling her own. "Be calm."

Yes, it is very evident now why Jaskier the traveling bard and popular poet. Being the Viscount with ties to these people. Hardly an hour into being acquainted and they seem more of automatons than people, no blood, no life. Possibly even no love in their hearts. His stage whisper gets a large, rueful smile from her.

"It was my idea to come here. You should have told me." Then again, would she have ever believed? "Your poor small cousins. How do they breathe here?" It's not a farm where they would be hungry and work themselves into adolescence. That was a kind of suffering, at least there was value, meaning. She bites her bottom lip and shakes her head.

A ridiculously ornate cart on wheels has crystal glasses, fine china plates and comically small and sparse sandwiches on them. Yennefer cannot recognize them on sight. She feels better knowing that they are served with fruit. That is always more sustaining.

Her question makes a deep, forlorn sort of sadness settle on his face. He lets her hands go and sags back against the chaise, dirtying it further with the whole of himself. One hand he drapes over his knee, the other he uses to push back his hair and rests it against his forehead.

"Poorly, all of them do," Jaskier tells her and sounds wrecked about it. "Iris is not alone in how she raises them."

He doesn't bother looking at the sandwiches before he takes two or three in one hand and just pops them in his mouth. They're cucumber and...oh he has no idea, they taste dreadful and bland. They aren't nearly as satisfying as the sandwich she had shared with him.

"This a result of my rebellion, they cannot raise children in houses like mine was," he admits flatly and heaves a heavy sigh. He has no idea how long they will be spared his cousins and he feels the need to warn her before they appear again. "Iris especially loathes me, she would have my title if my parents were less...obstinate. I think she rather hopes I'll die on the road, she will not appreciate your saving me."

If they can afford all of these terribly expensive pieces of furniture and fashion they can afford to up keep them. There are children here after all. Though with another slow glance if they were not in the room, how would anyone know?

"No," a soft word though she can only imagine. If this household considers itself to be a standard of finery, morals and wealth than the neighborhood around them must likely have put their own progeny to rigorous, senseless standards. "How is this even a home?" A glorified teacup, painted and hollow as she had thought.

Food is here and she would refuse it if she were not so hungry. The sandwiches are not at all sandwiches but bread with a thin spread between them and so finely cut. They can afford the bread can't they? One of them is fish, and she can tell it is fresh before it is gone in the next bite.

"I loathe the idea that you are seen as the deplorable one in this." Where is the justice? He is not doing any harm to anyone. Not going by his title means he cannot be traced back unless someone knows of him. "And I will gladly find a means to thank her for being so very kind." Whenever she can think of it and undertake it.

Distantly a door shuts abruptly. A moment after there is a long, shrill cry from what can only be Isolde who holds out the word Mummy into twelve or thirteen syllables of various unhappiness. Marta tutting in her most grown up of voices far away enough to not be discernible. Other adults and footsteps. Yennefer reaches for the glasses. Best be prepared for whatever comes next.

"I suppose this is wine."

Jaskier is on the verge of begging that she not, because recourse against Iris is recourse against her children, if only indirectly, but then Isolde is bawling down the hall and Jaskier looks back at the doors. The quiet 'oh' he lets out is just this side of heartbroken--it is a color she will recognize on him, she's certainly seen him wear it enough.

"It's claret," he tells her, distantly. A clarified purplish red wine that he's never really had a taste for. He takes one now, anyway, and downs it in one quick go before setting the glass aside.

Not a moment after he is finished, both Iris and her husband sashay into the room, looking all the world like the definition of a Duke and Duchess but with none of the power to back that appearance up. They've clearly spoken to one another, their expressions are aligned in that simmering neutrality they adore so, and Jaskier offers them a patient if flip look of his own.

"Cousin, we've come to tell you that your rooms are readied," Iris informs him as they walk to take seats on the wide couch opposite the chaise he has fallen onto. Hildebrand takes a glass of wine from the tray and holds it idly in his hand.

"You're both welcome as long as you require," he offers with a slight sniff and Jaskier sighs.

"We'll be gone tomorrow, we'd hate to intrude--"

"Nonsense," Iris interrupts sharply, flatly. "You'll stay and regain your strength. If you don't I'll never hear the end of it from my dear Uncle."

"Won't you...?" Jaskier hedges and pales just a touch. The smile Iris sends him is just a touch vicious, then. "Ah," he adds, "I see."

"Of course I wrote him that you arrived here, and in such a fraught state. I had to let him know you were alright."

Jaskier sighs and sets his empty cup on the tray.

"I do hope you told him to reward the family Boggs quite handsomely," Jaskier insisted and Iris's expression went a bit sour. "They did us quite the kindness by bringing us here."

"Yes," Iris agrees. Barely. "They did, didn't they. I shall...be certain to mention it in the next letter."

"Fantastic," Jaskier drawls. "Well, if that's quite all, I am dead on my feet," he adds quite rudely and makes a show of grimacing as he drags his hand down his face. His clothes are blood-soaked, his leg is bandaged. He can be rude, to a degree, especially if she's gone and decided to report his whereabouts to his father.

"Hildebrand, cousin," Jaskier says as he pushes himself up and falters just a touch. He has to grab the ornate arm of the chaise. There is a dark stain beneath where his leg rested and he can practically feel their anger about it. "Do help me up the stairs. I desperately need a bath and couldn't possibly trust anyone else to see me to my room but you."

He was going to bleed all over that stupid velvet coat if he had to stab himself again to achieve it.

Yennefer is able to be mostly done. The taste is not what she expected it to be. Though after having a taste of Nilfgaardian swill anything is an improvement. At least the glass it is served in is pretty. She has not heard any more of poor Isolde, and is more interested in what befell her than the return of Lady Iris and Lord Hildebrand. They are a pantomime and she cannot see them as anything else. Their tableau and postures, hollow. Is this how all small folk feel about anyone with wealth? She has been largely indifferent this far in life, money comes to title and opportunists. Yennefer had made plenty of bids to the opportunist side. She seldom starved and got by well. Her comfort was objects and she did not try and buy an image.

Her choice of seat has her between the interaction of cousins. It's like watching a child's game of ball. One side to the other side, careful words used to mean what are not what they say. The Uncle and his approval is another ball. Uncle...being Jaskier--Julian's father. Oh that will not suffice at all. May they forfeit the game. The bard is competitive. She knows that through and through. He will not take a loss.

Standing she places her empty glass on the cart. Clearly she too will be retiring to her room to rest and hopefully bathe. They are being treated as companions. Walls won't be able to hold her, there is no fear only more irritation. They do not know her or her reputation. Would it be any better? Perhaps it is just as well and treat her as any other person their cousin brought into their home. It exposes more of their character.

"Lady Yennefer," Iris has that same practice smile on her face as she clasps her hands together. "If you would follow me. Hildebrand and Julian will be just fine." It's spoken as more of a command, to Jaskier or to her husband, Yennefer isn't sure.

Hildebrand is changing colors and trying to touch his cousin with just the tips of his fingers. Jaskier is leaning on him so very much. Yes he is hurt but she can see that it is a put on. So long as the fop doesn't try to throw him down the stairs. Would he be so bold? Or rather, could he be capable of such a physical activity?

"Please," her own painted smile comes up on her mouth as she extends her hand to Iris. This was not what the lady was expecting, her gloved hand touches Yennefer's fingertips and they are arm in arm. It is the most stiff of touches she has had in memory. It's like touching a priest or a monk that had taken their vows of celibacy.

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( nursed back to health shipping meme. )

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