Chapter Text
Yennefer could sense the witcher and his companion before she saw them. Powerful chaos swirled around them, clinging to the man the witcher was dragging along like a black cloud. No doubt the witcher wanted her to fix whatever curse had befallen him. Upon hearing he’d been cursed by a djinn and seeing the intact seal for herself, she already knew she would help, simply so that she could trap the djinn for herself.
Now the witcher was out of the way causing havoc in town and the man, a bard apparently, was lying in a deep healing sleep. He wouldn’t wake for some hours yet, so until then Yennefer was left to wait. Once the curse had been dispelled she was surprised to find the bard had his own spark of chaos. It was almost nothing compared to her own, but it ought to have been enough for him to at least make an attempt at slowing the damage himself. She couldn’t help but wonder why he hadn’t. Perhaps the djinn had somehow inhibited his ability to call upon chaos.
It crossed her mind that he simply might not be aware he had magic, but she could feel it, like the flame of a candle, weak in the grans scheme of things, but undoubtedly present. It was enough that he should be aware of it. Maybe he’d never had any training and simply didn’t know how to use it. Regardless of the reason, it wasn’t really any of her concern. She just needed to heal him and then when he woke up, get him to make his third wish. After that, he was disposable.
As soon as the bard woke, she began the ritual. He was annoying and stubborn and for whatever reason refused to make his third wish despite her threats to his life. She ended up backing him against the wall, a knife to his throat. She felt his chaos surge with his fear momentarily, though he made no move to call upon it. It was slightly stronger now that he was awake, more akin to small fire than a candle, though still feeble when compared with her own vast well of power. Still, she desired more, and by the gods she was going to take it.
She threw him to the floor, all but screaming at him to make a damn wish. His chaos flared again and this time she swore she could almost feel it on her skin. It only lasted a split second, but it left her with the impression there was a deeper power there than she had initially suspected, like a contained explosion, bright and hot but shackled, forced into a space too small for it. He made his wish then, leaving her no time to spare him a second thought. She was distantly aware of him fleeing the room as she began to channel her chaos, binding the djinn to her before it could escape.
She didn’t see Geralt or the bard for almost a year after Rinde. Jaskier, she eventually learns his name is, not that she particularly cares. She and Geralt leave him behind in the tavern while they head to the nearest inn. She doesn’t spare him a second thought all night, just glad to be reunited with her witcher.
It isn’t until the next day that she finds him back in the tavern, picking as what passed for breakfast in this place. Geralt had to leave for the contract he’d originally come into town for before she woke. She couldn’t deny, she’d been disappointed to wake to an empty bed, but she’d known he was going to leave. What did surprise her however was that he’d also left the bard behind.
With nothing better to do, she approached his table, taking the seat opposite. He looked up from his bowl, more than a little surprised to see her. “What do you want, witch?” he said flatly.
“Nothing, bardling. I’m just surprised you’re sitting here instead of going with Geralt on this contract of his.”
Jaskier grimaced, turning back to what she could now see was lumpy porridge. “I’ve seen him fight drowners plenty of times before and I’d rather not spend the next three days smelling of fish guts.”
Neither said anything more. Jaskier went back to eating while Yennefer just sat there, watching. Strangely she could no longer detect any trace of chaos around him. Where before there had been at least a hint of magic about him, now there was nothing. No, somehow it was less than nothing, like a void where something ought to be. Curious, she reached out the tendrils of her own chaos to poke at the oddity.
Apparently she wasn’t as subtle as she thought she was since he scowled at her, a flash of heat forcing her to back out of his mind. To say she was surprised would be an understatement. She hadn’t been mistaken in Rinde, he really did have chaos but was hiding it for some reason. And not only that but he did in fact seem capable of controlling it now he wasn’t suffering a magical attack. She wondered just how much power he was hiding, and more interestingly, why?
“I don’t appreciate being examined like some dissected frog,” he said coldly.
Though she may not think a great deal of this bard, she hadn’t meant to upset him quite so much, and since he was close to Geralt she felt oddly apologetic. “Forgive me, but I don’t think I’ve ever met a mage who actively suppressed his magic before,” she said teasingly.
“I’m not a mage,” he grumbled, not taking the bait.
“But you have magic,” she said, leaning into his space, her arms resting on the table.
“Not enough to be useful,” he shrugged.
“I beg to differ. You detected me and forced me out. That’s no trivial thing.”
He sighed harshly, dropping his spoon in his bowl, and glaring at her from across the table. “I’m just a bard and my business is my own. Go find someone else to bother.”
They stared at each other for a moment, neither willing to back down first. “Why suppress it?” she asked eventually, her curiosity getting the better of her. “Why not go to Ban Ard and train it?”
Something like hurt crossed his face at the mention of Ban Ard. It was only there for a moment before he went back to glaring at her, but she had seen it all the same. “Or did you go, and they rejected you?” she tried.
“I’m not doing this,” he muttered before getting up, heading for the front door. She could have easily stopped him but decided to let him go. It seemed there was more to Geralt’s hapless friend that she’d first thought.
She didn’t see Jaskier again properly for many years. Each time she crossed paths with Geralt he was either alone or Jaskier headed off by himself shortly after. It wasn’t until she came across Geralt in some town that Jaskier was forced to stay. He’d dragged Geralt along to a bardic competition and would be performing over the next three days.
It didn’t escape her how he avoided her, but she didn’t really care. She had Geralt all to herself after all, but the years hadn’t quelled her curiosity. She’d tried to do some digging to try and figure out more, but Ban Ard, much like Aretuza, had a reputation for being extremely choosy over who they accepted. Someone with Jaskier’s potential however should have been enticing. The pieces just weren’t fitting together.
In the end, she managed to corner him in the tavern. The hour was late, and Geralt was busying himself with repairing his armour in their room upstairs. That just left herself and Jaskier, who was getting spectacularly drunk off his success. She bided her time, waiting until he sat down in a corner before joining him.
“Ah, the witch has arrived!” he declared to the already loud room. No one paid him any mind.
“Long time no see, Jaskier,” she said as she slid into the seat opposite him.
“If it were up to me, it would be longer,” he said dryly before taking a drink from his tankard. “What do you want?”
“Why must I want something?”
“Because you don’t bother to give me the time of day otherwise.”
She couldn't help but notice how his hold on his chaos was looser with drink, like bright sparks escaping from the void, trying to find anything to catch and hold on to but finding nothing, fizzling away instead. It was unsurprising considering the state of him really. She had seen him stumbling about and slurring his words. He’d been celebrating for several hours already, and it was almost impressive he was still going. Still, despite being able to feel more of the magic emanating from him, she could tell he still had a firm grip on it. There was no chance he was letting it go, even if he were knocked unconscious by the copious amounts of alcohol or a blow to the head.
“I want to know why you refuse to use magic,” she said, not bothering to beat around the subject any longer.
He stared at her for a moment, considering his next words carefully. There was no hostility like last time she was pleased to note, though that probably had more to do with the alcohol than her. “’s not safe,” he mumbled after a while, taking another sip.
“How is it not safe? It’s just magic. You just need to be taught to use it properly. Ban Ard could have done that.”
He shook his head. “They tried. Couldn’t manage.”
“Tried?” she said, her eyebrows shooting up. She had never considered he’d actually been accepted into the academy, assuming he’d been turned away at the door. He didn’t seem to notice her shock, or if he did, he was unbothered by it, simply nodding, picking at the woodgrain of the table with his nail. “You were accepted in?” she asked, needing to confirm what she was hearing. He nodded again. “So, what, you left?”
He nodded again, looking rather sad now. He drew his chaos closer in to himself, almost enough for it to become undetectable once more. “I wasn’t safe.”
“Were they going to turn you into an eel?” she asked completely seriously, remembering that night she had watched the only friends she'd ever had turn to eels right before her eyes.
Her question seemed to throw him off entirely. He looked at her now as though she’d spontaneously grown a second head. “What? Why an eel?”
She shrugged. “It’s what they did at Aretuza.”
“Well, that’s... horrifying. But no,” he said, shaking his head. “It was... something else.”
“What?” she asked, leaning in closer.
“You won’t find what you’re looking for,” he said, going back to defensive.
“I can just read your mind,” she said simply.
“You also know I can keep you out or else you would have done it by now,” he said smugly as he drained the last of his ale.
Yennefer decided to take that as a challenge. She was at an advantage after all. He was drunk and distracted by his feelings while she had a single-minded focus and decades of experience. She thought it would be easy to catch him off guard. Instead, she was immediately met with a rather impressive mental block keeping her out.
He frowned at her but didn’t otherwise react. She probed for weaknesses, trying to worm her way inside through brute force, widening the cracks. Annoyingly he wasn’t even using magic to keep her out. An impressive skill and not entirely unheard of. However, there was only so far that would get him against the force of her own chaos. As she pressed harder, worming her way through the cracks, he finally began to draw on his chaos.
The heat she had felt years ago returned, forcing her further out of his mind, sealing the cracks. She’d never in all her years come across a mage with magic quite like his, neither before nor since meeting him. The other mages just felt like... well, chaos. There was no sensation to accompany it save for a smell such as her own lilac and gooseberries. Jaskier almost felt like...
He felt like pure fire.
She withdrew as soon as she realised. Jaskier visibly relaxed but the pieces were finally falling into place for Yennefer. In her research, she had come across a mention of a boy who was suspected of using fire magic. He had failed at being able to draw from any other source after several months of training. After that there were conflicting accounts. Either he ran away leaving no trace behind or he attacked the other boys and burnt down a section of the school before disappearing.
“Julian?” she said incredulously, the name falling from her lips unbidden.
Jaskier went rigid in front of her, his eyes going wide and the colour draining from his face, his chaos flaring for just a moment before he locked it down tighter than she’d ever seen, leaving a vacuum in place of his chaos that almost made her head spin.
“Where'd you hear that name,” he said, voice quiet and tremulous.
“It’s you, isn’t it. The boy who ran from Ban Ard. The fire mage.”
“Shh,” he hissed, leaning toward her as though he was going to physically shut her up.
“Oh please,” she said dismissively. “There’s no one here who’s listening.”
“Please, Yennefer. Don’t— don’t bring this up. Not now, not here.”
He looked desperate, his eyes wide and pleading. It wasn’t fair to keep going, she knew. Not when he’d been caught so off guard and she’d obviously dredged up some bad memories. She decided to take pity on him instead of pressing on. “Fine. Not now. But don’t think this conversation is over.” With that she rose from the table, making her way towards the stairs.
“Wait!” he called, standing to follow her through the crowd.
“What?”
“Please don’t tell Geralt. He— he doesn’t know. He can’t find out. Please.”
“I won’t tell him,” she said, finding the promise an easy one to make. He’d obviously worked hard to escape whatever had happened in his past and without knowing the full picture, she was loath to start tearing it all down. She left him there, returning to Geralt with much to think about.
Yennefer never managed to get Jaskier alone again. He only stuck around if Geralt was present or else he found some excuse to leave if he was left alone with her. She understood why, but she would get to him eventually.
As it turned out, the opportunity arose during the dragon hunt. Her pathetic excuse of a knight had gone off with Geralt and some of the dwarves to find something to eat, leaving her and Jaskier alone at the camp. There was nowhere for him to go, no excuse he could make to escape her this time.
He was sitting on a log by the small campfire, scribbling away in his notebook as he quietly hummed to himself. She sat beside him, eliciting a weary sigh. “I was wondering how long it would take for you to show up,” he said without looking up.
“I still have questions and you’ve been avoiding me these past few years.”
He nodded, his shoulders dropping in defeat as he closed his notebook with more force than strictly necessary before finally turning to face her. “Let’s get it over with then,” he said, a hard edge to his voice. “But first, promise that you won’t tell Geralt any of this.”
“That will depend on whether or not I like what I hear.”
“I’m not a bad person, if that’s what you’re worried about.”
“We’ll see.”
He was clearly unhappy with this whole situation but after a moment he conceded. He wouldn’t be able to escape her now, no matter what he tried. “What do you want to know?”
“You’re a fire mage,” she began.
“That’s not a question.”
“So it’s true?”
He rolled his eyes. “Am I a mage if I don’t use magic?” he said sardonically. Yennefer simply raised an eyebrow and waited for a real answer. “Yes, fine,” he admitted. “I can use fire magic.”
“Fire magic is banned.”
“Oh, really?” he said with as much sarcasm as he could muster. “Thanks for that, Yennefer. You’ve really helped me out there. Of course, I bloody know it’s banned, why do you think I ran away?”
“Did you attack anyone when you ran?”
“What? No, I avoided everyone on my way out so I wasn’t spotted. I wasn’t about to start a bonfire in the library and announce my escape.”
“One of the records I read mentioned a boy who used fire magic attacking and burning a whole section of Ban Ard before he disappeared.”
“Well if it’s true, it wasn’t me,” he grumbled.
“Why run?” she asked, softer than before. She knew all too well the frustration of not being good at magic, long ago as it was. She hadn’t run though; she’d had nowhere else to go. She would have had to be truly desperate to leave the only future she could have possibly had.
He sighed heavily. “Stregobor,” he said, the name sending a shiver down her spine which didn’t go unnoticed. “I assume you’ve had the displeasure of meeting him?”
Yennefer nodded. “He’s a piece of shit who likes control too much.”
“Hmm, well he saw I was failing every task and gave me an ultimatum. Either I show him I was worth keeping around or I’d be expelled.”
“That sounds rough.”
Jaskier nodded. “It was. He gave me a month.” He took in a shuddering breath before continuing. “My conduit moment was lighting a fire in my room with just my mind. My parents didn't really know what to do with me since I have two older brothers. They have their heir and a spare so what's a third son good for," he shrugged. "I could tell they were relieved when they realised they could send me off to become a mage. Finally I could be of some use to them.
"I found fire easy to draw from, but I couldn’t control it very well. Then at Ban Ard, we were taught that fire magic was forbidden and that it ultimately destroys those who use it. Most of the time, it would consume the body, rendering the user to nought but ash. There were a known few instances where people survived, but instead of attacking their physical form, it would destroy the soul, a person’s very essence, until they were an empty shell.”
He closed his eyes, hanging his head down. “I avoided using it while I was there. I thought that maybe if I just kept trying I’d eventually get good at drawing from other sources but...”
“You got desperate,” she said, filling in the gaps.
“I began practising by myself in my room at night, just to prove that I could do magic. I got good at it, learnt how to control it properly until it was second nature. But one of the other boys caught me one night. He was my friend and I told him what Stregobor had told me, so he agreed to keep quiet. But as the month passed by, I grew more desperate. I’ll be the first to admit I became... unpleasant to be around. I guess he thought the fire was destroying me, so he went and told Stregobor.”
“So you ran,” she said faintly.
He nodded again, tears in his eyes. “I was fifteen. I had nowhere to go. No magic that was of any use and terrified of myself. So, I locked it away and remade myself as Jaskier the bard.”
She found herself reaching out to him, taking his hand in hers and giving it a gentle squeeze. “I’m sorry that happened to you. No one deserves that.”
He gave her a watery smile before wiping at his eyes with his sleeve. “You won’t tell Geralt will you?”
“No. Your secret’s safe with me.”
After how the dragon hunt ended, Yennefer didn’t think she’d see Jaskier ever again. She certainly didn’t think she’d be intentionally seeking him out. She last heard he was in Oxenfurt so that’s where she went. She ended up finding him performing in a tavern not far from the docks. The place was packed, the crowd loudly singing along and cheering as Jaskier made his way about the room.
He’d changed his look, his hair longer and instead of some hideously garish doublet he was wearing a long leather coat and a hat with a large feather stuck in the band. She found her way to an empty table tucked away in the corner and resigned herself to wait. No doubt he would keep going for many hours yet, well into the early hours of the morning.
Sure enough, several hours later the tavern was half empty and Jaskier finally took a break. Surprisingly, he made his way straight to her table, ale already in hand. “Yennefer of Vengerberg, to what do I owe the pleasure?” he said theatrically as he sank into the chair opposite.
“I need your help,” she said, getting straight to the point.
“You need my help?”
She nodded. “You know as well as I that war has come. Nilfgaard has already taken Cintra and now they're coming for Sodden. The Brotherhood are unwilling to help but there’s a few of us who are going anyway.”
“I don’t see what that’s got to do with me,” he said, taking a sip of his ale.
“We might need your fire.”
Jaskier visibly paled at that, setting down his drink on the table. “I can’t do that, Yen.”
“Jaskier, please. There aren’t many of us. Most of them spent their entire lives in some court tucked safely away from all of life’s hardships. We’ve never been in battle before. I would only have you there as a last resort anyway. You know as well as I do, if Sodden falls, the North goes down with it.”
“Why can’t you do it? You’re the most powerful mage on the continent from what I’ve gathered. Why can’t you tap into fire magic if you need it so badly?”
“Because drawing from a different source takes a lot of practice. That’s time we don’t have.”
“Have you thought about what it will cost me?” he asked. “What would become of me if I do as you ask? Will I burn away to nothing? Or will I become an empty husk?”
“I’ll be right there with you. I’ll help you control it, channel it as needed. Fire isn’t inherently dangerous with proper control.” She tried to speak with as much confidence as she could muster. In all honesty she had no idea how dangerous fire magic really was and Jaskier had much more experience with it. She just hoped he couldn’t tell she was bluffing. “You’d simply be there to provide a flame; I’ll be the one to guide it.”
“Yen, I haven’t so much as lit a candle with magic in the past however many decades,” he sighed. “I can’t. And even if I did, and if we somehow survive, I’ll be hunted down. You know probably better than I do how single minded Stregobor gets. If he finds out I’m still alive, he will hunt me to the ends of the continent.”
“If you don’t, we may lose to Nilfgaard and be killed anyway. We only need to hold them off until King Foltest brings his army.”
Jaskier ran his hands over his face. He already looked worn out from performing, and Yennefer certainly wasn’t helping matters. “I need to think about it.”
“There’s no time. We must leave tonight.”
Jaskier looked back up at her through his fingers. “So soon?”
“We had little warning. Nilfgaard is approaching Sodden as we speak,” she said, apologetically. “Look, I know this is a lot, and trust me, I wouldn’t have asked if I thought there was any other choice.”
He sighed again, pulling lightly at his hair before sitting back up. “Alright. I’ll go. Won’t be much of a life if Nilfgaard wins anyway.”
For the most part, Jaskier had stayed inside the crumbling castle’s walls. He did what he could, fighting with the refugees while the mages did most of the work keeping Nilfgaard at bay. That was until there was an explosion from inside, throwing everything into chaos. Jaskier had been close to the blast, having just enough time to redirect the flames around himself and the others nearby instinctively.
It was the first time he’d called upon his magic since the night he escaped Ban Ard and it left him feeling raw. He didn’t have time to dwell on it however as his attention turned to finding Yennefer. She had been up on the tower directing the fight but looking up she was nowhere to be seen behind the rising smoke. His ears still ringing from the explosion, he headed to the front gate.
One of the other mages, Triss, was trying desperately to keep out the Nilfgaardian soldiers, thick vines growing over the gap where the gate had been. One of the soldiers shoved his torch through a small gap, burning her. She fell down screaming, the vines already receding, the soldiers pushing through.
Jaskier didn’t think, moving on pure instinct. With one fluid motion he extinguished the fire clinging to Triss’s dress and blasted the Nilfgaardians, burning them in their own armour. He ignored their screams as he helped Triss up, ordering her to get further inside with the others.
Out on the battlefield, he searched for any sign of Yennefer. He tried to avoid using magic as much as possible, disliking the heat that coursed through his veins. Only when the soldiers came directly at him did he fight back, burning them down where they stood. It turned his stomach, but he had no choice. He had to find Yennefer.
It was dark when she finally appeared, stumbling back with another mage. “Yen!” he called, already running over to her from where he'd been guarding the main gate. Most of the soldiers had retreated into the trees to regroup but they would be back soon and there was no way he and the remaining mages could hold them off a second time. “Yen, it’s too late we need to get out of here.”
“No,” the other mage said. “Yennefer, you can save us. You can stop this.”
Jaskier wanted to argue but he could already tell Yennefer wouldn’t listen. She grabbed his arm with a rough order to follow while also leaning on him for support. She led them up a rocky outcrop in front of the ruined castle, looking over the battlefield at the advancing army.
“Now, Jaskier. We need your fire.”
“Yen...”
“Take my hand and listen carefully. We’ll burn these bastards together, but I need you to lead. You have the spark; I have the power.” She held her hand out for him to take. Though she looked like she had been through hell, he could feel the vast ocean of her chaos swirling around her, ready and waiting for her command. It was the polar opposite of his own, a barely contained blaze, surging against the restraints he’d placed on it all those year ago.
After only a moment’s hesitation he took her hand. He felt her power rush up his arm, racing through his body, giving him a heady rush. His fire flared, her power feeding it, threatening to break free and burn him. He was terrified of it but refused to let it show. It was too late for that now. Fear had no place in battle if he wanted to survive.
“I don’t know if I can do this,” he said, stuttering as the fire surged within him.
“You can. Just let it all go. All that anger and fear, everything you could have had and everything you’ve lost. Let it fuel you.”
With a deep breath, he closed his eyes, focussing on her words. He thought about his past, long buried. How scared he’d been when he first learnt that fire magic was evil, how he believed it would consume him. He thought of Stregobor and his threats, how he had tried desperately with all he had to earn his place, giving everything and still failing. The fear that followed in the years after fleeing Ban Ard, the endless nightmares of burning alive from his own magic.
He let it all bubble up until it boiled over. The spark ignited decades of tinder, erupting into a bonfire. For the first time in years, his chaos was truly free, the chains falling away. With a guttural scream, he unleashed all his pain and terror on the world, fire bursting forth from his outstretched hand.
Besides him, he felt Yennefer’s chaos surging like a tidal wave. Ordinarily he felt like he would drown under her power. Now it tore through him as his fire did through her. Unleashing her own scream, a jet of fire erupted from her hand. They stood atop the rock, hand in hand, watching as the forest burnt to ash.
Chapter 2
Notes:
It's been a while, I know. Things have been busy. Thank you so much to everyone who left kudos and comments on the first chapter! I was super pleased to see so many people enjoyed it so far. Updates will hopefully be a little more regular from now on. I'm going to try for weekly but I've never been very good at keeping to schedules so no guarantees.
Minor warning for blood in end notes.
Hope you enjoy!
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
The first thing Yennefer became aware of as she struggled to consciousness was the deep-seated ache running through her entire being. She opened her eyes, wincing at the bright light of dawn stabbing into her brain. She tried to lift her hand to block the glare only to find it weighed down, the clink of a chain sounding distant and muffled to go with the cotton stuffed in her head, making her thoughts slow.
“Welcome back,” came a chillingly familiar. She blinked her eyes, willing them to focus on the grey robed figure standing before her. “Wasn’t sure you’d make it,” Fringilla said dryly.
Behind the mage, Yennefer could see a small camp, a small fire burning nearby, surrounded by soldiers. Fringilla didn’t linger long after confirming Yennefer was in regrettably awake, returning to her position at the camp. Yennefer couldn’t help but be a little relieved as she turned away, sparing her from yet another speech about the glory of the White Flame or some such bullshit, though that would no doubt come in time.
She tried to get her bearings but just turning her head hurt, pain pulsing in her skull with each little movement. She could wait, she decided. She was hardly going anywhere anytime soon after all. She closed her eyes and leant her head back against the tree behind her, taking a few deep breaths to calm herself. While being Fringilla’s prisoner was far from ideal, she was alive which was more than she had been expecting going into the battle. It was why she had asked Jaskier to join her, to hopefully tip the scales in their favour.
Her eyes flew open as the final events of the battle came back to her. Ignoring the pain pulsing in her head, she looked around for any sight of the bard. She didn’t have to look for long as she saw him slumped on the ground to her right not too far away. It looked as though he’d initially been sat up against the tree like she had been, but he’d fallen at some point. Now he lay with his back to her, partly curled in on himself. His position unfortunately meant she couldn’t tell if he’d been injured at all in the aftermath. She tried to call his name but found her tongue uncooperative, sticking in her mouth as she coughed instead.
She tried reach out to grab him and wake him up to see if he was hurt, but her body refused to cooperate. Her arms weak and weighed down by the dimeritium shackles had been rendered near useless. Instead, she set her mind to shuffling herself closer to him, ignoring the burning of her exhausted muscles. It wasn’t a large distance to cross by any means, only a couple of feet, but it felt like forever until her fingers finally brushed against his back.
“Jaskier,” she croaked, managing to say his name this time as she tried to shake him awake. He was remained unresponsive so as carefully as she could with her tired, heavy hands, she moved him onto his back so she could get a better look at him. Much to her relief he appeared to be mostly unharmed, though he was covered in ash and dried blood just as she was. There was no sign that he had been harmed by the fire he had summoned. His hands were chained in dimeritium too which meant Fringilla had at least put together that she hadn’t been the only one to summon the fire, though she doubted Fringilla had any real idea of what Jaskier was capable of.
Her immediate concerns put to rest, she found another wave of exhaustion wash over her, strong enough to almost put her to sleep right there. She fought against it only for a moment, positioning herself so that she was at least lying more comfortably beside Jaskier.
Night was drawing in by the time Jaskier finally stirred. Yennefer had been sleeping in uneasy bursts, since her body hurt too much for anything else. She had only been awake for a few minutes when he let out a heavy sigh, no doubt feeling just as awful as she did, if not more as he was unused to magical exertion.
“Jaskier?” she rasped, sitting up a little so she could see him better in the dim firelight. Her body still ached but it was a little more bearable now after not doing anything all day.
He opened his eyes with a groan which quickly became a cough instead. All she could do was watch as he tried to sit up, realising as she had that his hands were bound in heavy chains. She expected him to comment on it when he stopped coughing, but he just stared at his hands blankly for a moment before finally pushing himself upright, shuffling backwards slowly until his back rested against the tree behind them, closing his eyes again with a sigh.
“How do you feel?” she asked. He only gave a tired shrug, not even opening his eyes to look at her. Her stomach sank at the uncharacteristic behaviour. She had never known him to hesitate to fill the silence, no matter how dire the circumstances he found himself in. Had he been right about fire magic? Had using it exacted a higher price than she thought it would?
“Jaskier, please say something,” she almost begged. He opened his eyes to look at her for a second before he dropped his gaze to where his chained hands lay in his lap. “Please.”
She waited for what felt like an eternity before he sighed again before turning to look at her properly. He looked utterly exhausted, dirt and ash staining his face, the familiar light in his eyes dulled. He opened his mouth but couldn’t seem to find the words. He looked away, clenching his jaw shut. He looked like he wanted to say something, but simply couldn’t. Yennefer didn’t want to think on why that might be.
“It’s alright. Don’t worry, we’ll be alright.” She barely believed what she was saying herself and she doubted Jaskier was convinced either. Still, it was all she could offer so she gave it anyway.
Yennefer woke with a start, her body shaking with the vision of a nightmarish figure in red and the screams of a child that she still foolishly wished she had. In her panicked state, she didn’t immediately realise she was no longer in the forest. Some of the shaking she was feeling was coming from the cart she was now locked inside of.
She tried to sit herself up to get some idea of what gods awful situation she was in now, groaning as her head ached with the change in position. She had fully expected to find herself still in chains, so it was a surprise when she found she could move her arms independently.
The shackle from her right wrist had been removed while the left one remained. At the other end of it, she found she had been chained to Fringilla who was lying beside her, still asleep. She found Jaskier lying behind her, his shackles seemingly untouched. Whoever had captured them clearly didn’t want to take any risks with any of them. He too appeared to be asleep, though his brow was furrowed as he found himself trapped in a nightmare.
“Hey, Jaskier. Wake up!” she said, shaking him lightly. He startled awake, backing away further until his shoulder hit the cart’s wall with a thud, his hands going to his throat protectively. He looked around, wild eyed and breathing hard before he seemed to come back to himself. “It’s just me,” she said softly. He nodded, letting out a ragged sigh, tension draining from him as he sagged against the wall.
Yennefer turned her attention to Fringilla then. She was muttering something about people touching her, but it was too incoherent for Yennefer to make any sense of it. She reached out to shake her awake too, though not quite so carefully. Fringilla pulled away, spitting venom as she ordered Yennefer not to touch her before she came to her senses. She regained her bearings more quickly than Jaskier had, at which point she bolted up to look out the narrow gap in the cart’s wall.
“We’re moving away from Cintra,” she said. “Fuck.”
“Finally, an honest response,” Yennefer grumbled, sitting back down. Fringilla tried to yank her hand away, only succeeding in almost pulling Yennefer over. “Looks like we’re stuck together. Who knows, maybe we’ll be friends again,” she said dryly.
Fringilla opened her mouth, likely to snipe back, but she was cut off as the cart jolted to a stop. The doors opened to reveal several elves, each of them armed. The one who had opened the door lowered his hood to better look at them. They must have made a pitiful sight, huddled in the cart like a bunch of scared animals. She heard Jaskier take a stuttering breath from where he still sat behind her but paid him little attention. They were all scared after all, not that either she or Fringilla would admit it.
“Keep them close,” the apparent leader said to the red-haired elf at his side.
The three of them were quickly manhandled out of the cart and ordered to follow on foot. Any deviation from the path would be swiftly punished. Fringilla unfortunately couldn’t keep her mouth shut, demanding answers only to be met by hostile silence and an order to shut up.
Yennefer found herself missing the kind, quiet girl she had known in Aretuza. She didn’t regret her actions that night all those decades ago. It was what she believed she was owed and by the gods she was going to take it. It was just a shame Fringilla had been caught up in the mess. She had meant what she’s said in the cart, she hoped that one day perhaps they could be friends once more.
Jaskier walked beside her some distance away, still not uttering a single word and keeping his head down. To say she was concerned would be an understatement. It didn’t help that the blond elf kept glaring daggers at him. It put her on edge, making her feel like he would attack Jaskier with the slightest provocation. With the way Jaskier was resolutely avoiding looking at him and the vague descriptions she’d heard over the years, she suspected this might be Filavandrel, the elven king and rebel from Jaskier’s song. Which would explain why he was watching the bard so closely.
Fringilla finally fell silent once they entered the elven camp. They were led straight to a large tent near the ancient ruins of the temple. Inside knelt a woman in the middle of a ritual. The three of them fell to their knees, waiting to be addressed. Or at least Yennefer was. Fringilla just couldn’t help herself yet again and began trying to bargain straight away. The woman was having none of it, sending her to sleep with just a wave of her hand. Fringilla fell to the ground in a heap, dragging Yennefer with her.
The elven woman and Filavandrel spoke in elder, either unaware Yennefer understood them or simply uncaring. It seemed Filavandrel wanted to use them as leverage, but this woman clearly thought them useless and unfortunately she seemed to be in charge.
“These ones were found in dimeritium?” she said.
“These ones were captives of Nilfgaard,” Yennefer said, finally drawing attention to herself. “I’m also an elf.” The woman looked at her with contempt. “Is this how you treat your own?” she asked in elder this time.
This only seemed to make her angry. “Do you sing our songs?” she said as she slowly began to approach. Beside her, she felt Jaskier tense but as usual, he kept quiet. “Do you honour our elders?”
She was crouching in front of Yennefer now, leaning in uncomfortably close. She reached out to run her fingers over the round edge of Yennefer’s ear. “Have you ever shed a tear over anything elven?” Yennefer turned to look away as she crowded into her space. “You are no elf.”
She turned her attention to Jaskier then. He had kept his gaze fixed on the floor in front of him, not daring to move or make a sound, though Yennefer was beginning to wonder if he could make any sound at all. “This one is a mage too?” she asked Filavandrel, pointing lazily to the chains on his wrists.
“A bard,” he all but spat. His tone caught the woman’s attention as she turned to give him a questioning look.
“The one from Dol Blathana?” she asked with mild surprise.
“The very same.”
The woman grabbed Jaskier roughly by the chin, forcing his head up to look at her. His entire body trembled, but he still didn’t say a word. “He’s quieter than I expected. Has he lost his tongue?” the woman mused. She let him go with a slight shove before standing back up.
“String them up. Once we’ve found what we’re looking for, we’ll send the mages’ heads back to Aretuza as a reminder of elven glory.”
“What of him?”
“You can do what you wish to him. He is of no use to us.”
The three of them were quickly taken out of the tent, two elves carrying Fringilla as they were led away to a tree where they were tied up. Jaskier was still shaking beside her so she shuffled up to press herself against his side as much as she could, hoping the contact would help calm his nerves.
“I’m sorry for dragging you into all this,” she said softly. He only responded by resting his head against hers. They sat like that for a while, waiting to see what the elves had in store for them. Fringilla woke eventually and as expected started causing a fuss before being ordered to shut up yet again. When everyone stopped acknowledging her, she fell silent.
Yennefer tried talking to Jaskier every so often, trying to coax him into just making a noise at this point but the man wouldn’t so much as hum. The most she could get out of him was a tired sigh or a nod of the head. Everything about his demeanour was screaming that something was deeply wrong. He tried to make himself small and unnoticed and there was very little life in his usually expressive eyes. She was truly beginning to fear the impact using his fire was having on him.
“Who is he?” Fringilla asked after what might have been Yennefer’s seventh attempt at getting him to respond in some meaningful way. “The elves said he was a bard, but I saw him with you on that hill when you destroyed our army. You clearly needed him for something.”
“He is a bard,” she snapped, turning her attention to Fringilla.
“I know he has chaos Yennefer, I’m not stupid.”
“And I’m telling you, Fringilla, that he’s not a mage,” she said sharply, her patience worn dangerously thin.
“So, what, you were using him as an energy source or something while you conjured that fire?”
“Something like that,” she grumbled. The last thing Jaskier would want is her blurting his secret to the first person who asked, especially not while he was sitting right next to her.
“I’m surprised the brotherhood let you pull that stunt. We both know what they think of fire magic.”
“Perhaps you’ve been a little out of the loop since becoming Nilfgaard’s lapdog, but I broke with the brotherhood years ago. I do what I want.”
That finally seemed to shut her up as she turned away from her as much as she could manage. “He’s too quiet for a bard,” she heard Fringilla mutter under her breath after a moment. Yennefer felt a brief flash of rage but forced herself not to act on it, restraining herself while the urge to claw Fringilla’s eyes out passed. She wasn’t entirely wrong. Whatever was wrong with Jaskier was pretty high up on her list of concerns right now as she was directly responsible for him being here in the first place, but it would do none of them any good to start arguing over it in front of him.
Filavandrel came back eventually. He ignored the two mages, his eyes fixed on Jaskier like a cat stalking its prey. He untied Jaskier from the tree and roughly yanked him to his feet with an order to follow.
“No! Leave him alone!” Yennefer begged, struggling against her own restraints.
“Silence!” Filavandrel growled as he shoved Jaskier back into the camp.
She watched helplessly as Jaskier disappeared in the crowd. He didn’t turn to look back at her, going along with Filavandrel without complaint. It looked like acceptance, like he knew he wouldn’t be coming back.
Yennefer struggled to remember the last time she had felt so helpless. Stripped of her magic by a stupid band of metal, tied up and kept prisoner, handed from enemy to enemy like some prize to be paraded about. And now she’d just lost the only person who she actually gave a shit about around here to one of the few people on the continent who actually wished him serious harm.
“Who is he to you really?” Fringilla asked once they were out of sight. The question came with none of the accusation or suspicion from before, just genuine curiosity.
“A friend,” she said, feeling hollow as she stared into the crowd.
Filavandrel was hardly gentle in his manhandling of Jaskier. He shoved him this way and that as they made their way through the camp, despite the fact that most of the elves got out of their way without needing to be told. Jaskier had neither the energy nor the ability to argue or fight back. He had known this was coming as soon as he’d recognised Filavandrel. He knew he would want to exact some kind of revenge for his songs against him and his people.
Jaskier kept walking obediently even as Filavandrel led them out of the camp and into the surrounding forest away from the tents. It would be easier to dispose of his body, he supposed, if all he had to do was kick him into a ditch. They eventually came to a stop in a small clearing where Filavandrel shoved him down to his knees.
The elf was standing in front of him now, a knife drawn and ready, glinting in the sunlight. Jaskier closed his eyes. The last thing he wanted was to see the blade cut him open. In the back of his mind, he knew he ought to fight back, but all he really felt was an all-consuming apathy. He didn’t particularly want to die, but whatever he tried would be futile, so it was best to just let him get on with it.
“Why were you at Sodden?” Filavandrel asked, cold and commanding. Jaskier opened his eyes in surprise. The knife was still drawn but he had come no closer. “And why are you bound in dimeritium?”
Jaskier opened his mouth to speak but just like every time he’d tried with Yennefer, nothing came. His tongue refused to cooperate, his throat seizing up. He closed his mouth again, trying to will himself to speak but it was useless. Filavandrel lunged forward then, grabbing his hair to pull his head back, exposing his throat and pressing the cold edge of the knife against the now taut skin.
He whimpered, the first real noise he’d managed to make since Sodden, but still no words came forth. Just that small noise scratched his throat, the urge to cough difficult to suppress. In a last desperate effort, he tried to use some of the scant sign language he remembered from his days as a student. “Sorry,” he spelt out clumsily, trying to remember the right movements while hoping desperately that Filavandrel understood.
The movement caught his attention and the blade stopped biting into his neck quite so hard. He repeated the signs, slightly surer of himself this time, then again, desperate to be understood. Something crossed the elf’s face before the anger returned. “You think sorry makes up for it?” he spat.
Jaskier shook his head ever so slightly, mindful of the blade at his throat. “Try. Help,” he spelt out then. He didn’t know a great deal of words, but with a bit of struggling, the alphabet came to him well enough to get by.
“How could you possibly call your songs help.”
Jaskier wasn’t sure how much longer he could keep talking like this. There was too much he needed to say. He lacked the vocabulary in sign and literally spelling everything out was cumbersome, and he strongly suspected Filavandrel lacked the patience to listen for much longer. Still, he tried. He wanted him to understand why he’d done it, even if it didn’t prevent the inevitable.
“Humans hunt you.” He paused, trying to find the right words to balance speed with clarity.
Filavandrel’s patience didn’t last that long. The knife pressed closer again, forcing Jaskier to tilt his head further back, his hands shaking too much to continue. “What happened to your incessant chatter, hmm? I remember you wouldn’t shut up last time we met. Have your words abandoned you in your final moments?”
Jaskier closed his eyes again, resigned to his fate. There was nothing he could say, no way to get the words across to explain why he did what he did. There was no saving him. The knife pressed harder, blood welling up where it cut into him. He felt it run down his neck, burning hot on his chilled skin.
“Useless,” Filavandrel hissed. The hand gripping his hair released and the knife disappeared from his neck. Jaskier found himself falling forward for a moment before he righted himself, one hand going to his neck to check he wasn’t imagining things. His fingers came away bloody, but the cut was small and not very deep. Filavandrel was now pacing around the clearing, knife still in hand but no longer an imminent threat.
“Don’t think this means you get to live,” he said pointing at him with the blade, a drop of his blood falling from the tip. “Francesca isn’t interested in what you and the mages know but I want answers.”
“I help,” he managed to sign with shaking hands.
“Help who?” Filavandrel knelt back down in front of him.
“Help,” he repeated, gesturing to himself then to Filavandrel. “Humans hunt you. Song you gone. No one to hunt,” he managed in the end, hoping he got his message across. If he had told a truthful account of their first meeting, the people of Posada would have known the elves were still there and that they were vulnerable. The elves would have been an easy target, weak as they were back then. So Jaskier had told everyone Geralt had kicked their asses and sent them packing. If there was no one there to attack, the humans wouldn’t have gone looking. “No threat. You safe,” he added, trying to drive the point home.
“Are you seriously expecting me to believe you were helping us with all those lies you spouted?” he spat. “You’ve done nothing but make them hate us more.”
Jaskier felt helplessly trapped. There was no way he could talk his way out of this, couldn’t even nod or shake his head for fear of being misinterpreted. He didn’t think he would be believed, but it was the honest truth and it had needed to be said regardless.
Filavandrel was looking at him intently now, searching for any sign he might be lying. It was tempting to avert his gaze, hang his head as Filavandrel judged him. But he had nothing to hide, and he’d rather not die just yet, so he kept his head up.
“Why were you of all people at Sodden?” he asked, narrowing his eyes as he returned to his earlier question. Jaskier didn’t know if it meant he was forgiven or not, but he was more than happy for the conversation to move on.
“Fire,” he signed, followed by an attempt at mimicking an explosion with his hands.
“Yes, that purple-eyed witch set fire to the forest. But why were you there?”
He shook his head again, pointing to himself this time before spelling the word out again.
“You. You set fire to Nilfgaard?” he laughed. Jaskier nodded. “You’re just a bard.” Jaskier raised his hands, demonstrating the dimeritium shackles still around his writs, pointing to where the metal had caused his skin to turn red. Filavandrel stepped closer, taking his arm roughly to inspect the damage himself. “Hmph, a mage too then. Maybe we can send your head to Ban Ard.”
Jaskier rolled his eyes. That would be a colossal waste of time. It didn’t go unnoticed by the elf. “What, not particularly fond of the Brotherhood?” he sneered, dropping Jaskier’s arm with a shove.
“Fire,” he repeated. “Banned.”
“Oh, so we’d be doing them a favour turning you in.” He started circling the small clearing again then. Jaskier half wished he would do away with the dramatics and just end it already. He was under no illusion he would be leaving here alive.
Jaskier was about to try again with a few more words when the red-haired elf from before came into the clearing, calling Filavandrel’s name. “They’ve found something, in the ruins. Francesca wants you there.”
“I’ll be there shortly.”
With a nod, the other elf left, his gaze lingering on Jaskier’s pitiful form briefly. His time was up he realised. Filavandrel would finish him off before going to see to whatever it was he’d been called to. Jaskier tried to plea with Filavandrel one last time, hoping his face could convey enough of what he wished he could say. Filavandrel gave him a hard stare for what felt like eternity before he spoke.
“Get up,” he snapped, sheathing the knife. The words didn’t quite sink in straight away, so it was a surprise when he felt himself being roughly dragged to his feet and shoved back in the direction of the camp. Everything felt strange and detached as he walked, like it was all happening to someone else. It was only when he was tied up at the tree that he started to come back to himself. Yennefer and the other mage were missing, though he doubted they’d been killed. They were more useful than he was after all.
Jaskier wasn’t quite sure where he was. It looked like some kind of cellar or dungeon, but there was no visible way in or out. There were no torches or windows and yet he could see perfectly well in the gloom. He wandered the empty halls, calling out for anyone who may be around. The first time he spoke, he felt a mild stabbing sensation in his throat but thought nothing of it. The second time was more intense and caused him to cough. The third was agony, like he’d gargled shards of glass, tearing the inside of his throat open.
He coughed, trying to dislodge the choking feeling creeping up on him but only succeeded in causing himself more pain. He tried to take in a gasp of air, quickly growing desperate for a breath without pain but he choked again. Something wet fell from his lips. He wiped it away on the back of his hand, only to find his skin stained bright red. He tried to call for help but his voice was all but gone, little more than a wet rasp before he coughed again. The coughing didn’t stop, his ribs aching and lungs burning as he fought to breathe.
He fell to the floor, gasping and clawing at his throat, paying no mind to the shock of his knees hitting stone. His vision was beginning to blur and fade, black creeping in at the edges from lack of air, the tears streaming down his face leaving everything else unfocussed. He looked up, desperate for someone to come and save him. To his surprise, he saw a figure dressed in white robes at the far end of the long hallway. He couldn’t make out their face, obscured as his vision was, but he tried to beg them for help, his voice little more than a strangled rasp.
They didn’t move, just stood there and watched as he choked. This was so much worse than the djinn. At least then he’d had Geralt at his side. He’d had someone to notice and find him some help. Now he just had this mysterious figure who simply stood by. He coughed again, straining to take in air. He retched, spitting out as much blood as he could in a desperate attempt at clearing his airway. It didn’t help, the blood coming as fast as he could clear it.
His head swam from lack of air, making it increasingly difficult to remain upright. He fell forward, barely able to stop himself smashing his face on the floor. Blood splattered from his mouth, a grim pool of it forming beneath him. For a moment he managed to suck in a desperate breath, only for it to catch in the back of his throat and set off another bout of coughing, expelling the pitiful amount of air he’d managed to pull in.
He looked up again, hoping the figure in white might help him now, only to find them gone. He looked around and almost jumped out of his skin when a second figure wearing red appeared just to his left, much closer than the first. Again, he tried to beg for help, but they just stood there, watching impassively as he suffocated.
The pain was unbearable now, his throat flayed open further with every single halted breath. He coughed, choked and retched again, desperate to get any air into his lungs. He couldn’t feel his limbs now, having gone cold and stiff as his body tried to keep him alive a few moments longer. He fell onto his side with a dull thud, expelling the last of what little oxygen he’d managed to get into his lungs. He was vaguely aware of the blood trickling out of his mouth as he lay there, motionless save for the spasms in his chest as his body still fought to just breathe.
A third figure had appeared now, this one in black and so much closer than the other two. They approached slowly; their steps almost leisurely as he lay on the ground dying. A feeling of dread washed over him as they knelt next to him, close enough to touch if he had any control of his limbs.
“Your power is insignificant compared to the others,” a cacophony of voices said as one, both a shout and a whisper, men, women and children all overlapping. He couldn’t tell if the statement was directed at him or if the voices were just talking amongst themselves. “But, I may have use for you yet. Your pain is strong and oh so sweet.”
A pale, bony hand reached out to him from beneath the black robe. He tried to get away, not wanting this strange being to touch him. He couldn’t move however, his body unresponsive on the brink of suffocating. The hand touched his neck, and he was met with a blinding pain.
Jaskier woke with a start, hitting his head on something hard, gasping and clawing at his neck as he took in a ragged gasp of air. Instead of pain, he found he could draw breath easily, cool air filling his lungs. He took another breath, just to make sure he wasn’t actually dying. His heart beat a rapid pace in his chest, pounding against his ribcage but there was no pain. He wiped his hand across his mouth just to check that there was no blood. There wasn’t.
Slowly he came back to his senses. He was still chained to the tree in the middle of the elven camp and the only pain he felt was from where he’d just headbutted said tree and the burning around his wrists from the dimeritium. His throat was fine. He wasn’t dying. He let out a shaky breath, fairly confident he wouldn’t find himself suffocating again.
He hadn’t meant to fall asleep, too worried about what had become of Yennefer, but exhaustion must have won out in the end and dragged him under. It had been the same nightmare he’d had before he’d woken in the cart earlier that day, though the robed figures hadn’t spoken then. He purposefully shoved it to the back of his mind. It meant nothing, just some horror his mind had conjured up since he’d found he’d lost his voice.
Absently he rubbed at his throat, chasing away the memory of the pain and blood. When he’d agreed to come with Yennefer to Sodden, he had known it was more than likely that he would have to use his magic, and with that had come the risk to his very being. Their display of power had left him physically unharmed and not piles of ash and bones which he was grateful for, but he could feel there was a gaping hole within him.
He didn’t dare name it, fearing it would bring some kind of finality with it. His voice was by far the most obvious thing that he’d lost, but that wasn’t all. He was struggling to find anything he could cling onto, indifference clinging to him like a sickness he couldn’t shake. He’d gotten though the ups and downs of life by trying to remain hopeful that things would eventually work out for the best, and so far that tactic had served him well. He would have talked endlessly to distract himself, and probably Yennefer too, it and wait it out. But now… Well now he wasn’t sure that even if he did have his voice that he would even want to talk.
When he’d first woken up, he hadn’t had any interest in answering Yennefer’s questions, simply lacking the willpower or energy to do so, simple as they were to respond to. But as he’d started to recover some of his strength, he’d found his throat would seize any time he tried to make so much as a groan, let alone speak. He’d quickly stopped trying, unwilling to be confronted by the fact that he could no longer do the one thing he’d always been able to rely on.
Even now he tried to hum quietly to himself experimentally, but found he was incapable of doing anything more than breathe through his nose. He tried more forcefully and succeeded in making a quiet sound, only to choke on it immediately. Fear spiked within him as he was suddenly thrown back into the nightmare. He didn’t try again.
Jaskier was left waiting several hours by himself. An elf came by at one point to give him a cup of water which he drank gratefully, but otherwise he was left alone. He managed to catch titbits of conversations, something about finding something in the ruins and that that was where Yennefer had been taken. He hoped she was safe. As the sun began its decent across the sky, a call went out and the elves began to move. Tents were dismantled and belongings were packed away and loaded onto waiting carts. Within the hour, everyone was falling in line, ready to move out.
He caught more snatches of talk about an agreement between the Nilfgaardian mage and the elves, granting them refuge in Cintra. He couldn’t help but be pleased for them, even if he was still their prisoner. It would give them hope, and more importantly, it would give them somewhere safe where they could regroup and rebuild at long last, even if it was at the expense of the Cintrans. He spared a thought for the young princess, bound to Geralt before she’d even been born. He hoped she was safe. She didn’t deserve any of this.
As they started moving west, Jaskier couldn’t help but realise he was being left behind. He tried to call out but only ended up choking on the small noises, failing to get someone to notice him and perhaps either release him or kill him. Release would certainly be preferable, but he didn’t like the prospect of remaining tied to a tree until he either died of dehydration or something came along to finish him off, so he would rather take a quick death over a slow one if that was his only option. No one seemed to care, however, passing him without notice. He was all but invisible to them, and honestly, he couldn’t blame them.
He closed his eyes after a while. He was still utterly exhausted, not having had a chance for restful sleep for the past few days, and his body still ached from the battle. Several minutes passed before something grabbed his hands, causing him to startle. Opening his eyes, he found himself face to face with Filavandrel once more. Was he here to finish what he’d started, or was he just going to make him follow all the way to Cintra?
The elf didn’t say a word as he produced a key and unlocked the shackles around his wrists. Jaskier stared at them dumbly as they fell into his lap with a clatter. “Go now, and if I ever see your face again, I will not hesitate to finish what I started.”
Jaskier didn’t need telling twice. He stumbled to his feet and fled through the trees. He headed vaguely north, back toward the smell of the fire and destruction he had caused.
Notes:
Minor warning for an excessive amount of blood as part of a nightmare sequence. Begins with "Jaskier wasn’t quite sure where he was." and ends with "Jaskier woke with a start". The rest is fairly canon typical.
Chapter 3
Summary:
Jaskier flees further north after being released by Filavandrel and had to learn to live without his voice.
Chapter Text
Jaskier fled through the forest in a haze. He barely had any idea of where he was nor where he was going, only that he had to keep pushing onwards. He had somehow stumbled his way back to Sodden though now the burnt remains of the keep lay abandoned. Only a few refugees remained, mostly those too sick or injured to travel. There was no reason for him to linger so he pushed on towards the Northern Kingdoms.
He only stopped when it became too dark to see, collapsing at the roots of the nearest tree and curling into a ball to retain what little warmth he could before passing out. Nightmares plagued his fitful sleep, causing him to wake gasping and shaking throughout the night. He tried his best to resist the pull of sleep but he would eventually succumb and the cycle repeated. The robed figures featured prominently, though they weren’t the only horrors Jaskier’s mind conjured up.
Choking on his own blood time and time again apparently wasn’t enough of a punishment as his mind forced him to relive the battle too. Burnt bodies lay around him, the stench of charred flesh permeating the air, causing him to gag. They were almost unrecognisable as people, scorched until they resembled little more than blackened bones. Somehow Jaskier could still hear their cries as clear as day. Some begged him for mercy, others prayed that they would see their families again, but most simply screamed. He fell to his knees, begging them to stop, for it all to stop. And then he would wake, gasping for air, tears staining his cheeks.
He gave up any hope for rest once the sky lightened enough to see by. On trembling legs, and leaning heavily against the tree’s trunk, he pulled himself to standing. His head swam but he fought against it and remained upright. He hadn’t eaten anything for three days now, nor had he gotten any meaningful rest in that time. He was running on nothing and somehow he had to keep going, to find some semblance of safety.
With great effort, he managed to put one foot in front of the other, trudging his way through the forest until he finally came across a road. It was little more than a streak of dirt cutting through the trees, but it showed the distinctive signs of regular use by carts. Perhaps there was a village nearby. He had no money and no way to earn any since both his lute and voice had been taken in the battle, but someone might take pity on him. At the very least there might be a well where he could quench his thirst.
He followed the path north, his legs moving without much conscious thought. Thinking only led back to the nightmares, both sleeping and waking. Reality was terrifyingly inescapable; his worst nightmare had happened. He had lost his voice, the one thing he had always been able to rely on whether he wanted to entertain the masses or get himself out of a sticky situation. Every little noise he made only brought a sharp pain in his throat, like swallowing glass. In his dreams it was made so much worse, blood bubbling up between his lips as he suffocated on it. The vivid memory of it made him too scared to try anything more than the slightest whisper, and even that was too much to bear.
He wasn’t sure how long he had been trudging along the road, only aware that the sun had moved across the sky and was once more making its way to the horizon when a voice called out. It took him a moment to realise the voice was talking to him. He stumbled to a stop and lifted his head from where he’d been staring blankly at the road to look around but saw nothing ahead of him. Now that he’d stopped, he found himself drained of any remaining energy and simply swayed on the spot as he tried to figure out if he’d hallucinated the voice or not.
“Hey! Behind you!” the voice called again, this time clearer to his foggy mind.
He turned slowly, fearing he might just topple over, to see the woman the voice belonged to. He was more than a little surprised to find that she, along with her horse and cart had somehow come up behind him without his notice. The woman was watching him expectantly while a man who was sitting beside her was glaring at him. Both looked to be in their sixties, grey streaking her hair while the man, likely her husband, was mostly bald with white in his short beard.
Jaskier automatically opened his mouth to reply but quickly thought better of it, nodding his head instead. He didn’t want to bother them. He stepped to the side of the road to allow the cart past, almost tripping over his own feet.
“Come on,” the husband said gruffly when his wife hesitated. “Let’s be going.”
Ignoring his protests, the woman climbed down from the cart and walked up to Jaskier. “Where have you come from dear?” she asked.
Unable to tell her verbally, Jaskier could only point south. She gave him a sad look and a short nod. “Why don’t you come with us? At least to the next town. You look about ready to keel over.”
“You can’t pick up every stray you come across Ana,” the man said in exasperation.
“Oh quit your whining,” she said, already leading Jaskier over to the cart with a hand on his back. Jaskier didn’t want to cause trouble for the couple, but he felt close to passing out from sheer exhaustion and a ride would be a welcome break.
Ana let him sit in the back with several sacks of what was probably grain and gave him a half full waterskin. He drank greedily, almost draining it in one before remembering himself and slowing down. He was only vaguely aware of the man grumbling to Ana as she took her seat at the front beside him.
“Pay him no mind,” she called back to Jaskier as they set off again. “My name is Ana, and this is Stefan.”
There was an expectant pause as she waited for him to introduce himself, but he couldn’t. He wouldn’t even risk trying, too afraid of the pain it would bring. Ana took it in her stride, politely ignoring his silence. “We’ll be arriving in town close to evening so you may as well make yourself comfortable back there.”
Jaskier nodded even though neither of them could see him. The back of the cart was hardly the most comfortable place to sit but it beat trudging through the forest for hours on end on an empty stomach. He tried his best to get somewhat comfortable, rearranging the sacks so that they no longer dug into his backside.
He spent the journey drifting in the quiet space between full wakefulness and sleep. It was safe there as it lacked the nightmares that had been plaguing him, though it wasn’t particularly restful as the cart bumped its way down the uneven road. He was aware of Ana and Stefan talking to each other, but he couldn’t make out what they were saying, nor did he care to.
They stopped only the once briefly to give the horse a break and to eat something for themselves. Ana was kind enough to offer him some bread. He tried to refuse, not wanting to become more of a burden, but she was hard to argue with as she ended up taking his hand in hers and placing the food in his palm. He was thankful of her of course and found it hard to turn her down when she was so insistent, so he ate gratefully, glad to have something in his stomach at last.
They arrived in town as planned, though calling this place a town was being a little generous. He clambered off the back of the cart, fully intending to thank Ana and Stefan before disappearing. Stefan however seemed to have other ideas.
“Maybe you can make yourself useful now and help me unload these,” he said as he grabbed one of the sacks.
“Oh, leave him be,” Ana said from where she was tending to their horse, relieving it of its tack.
Jaskier wanted to say it was fine, that he didn’t mind repaying them for their kindness. He couldn’t of course, so settled for grabbing a sack of his own, indicating for Stefan to lead on. He gave Jaskier an approving look before leading them through the market to a warehouse. He talked to the man working there briefly before heading to the back corner where they offloaded the grain.
“Right, only several more trips to go,” Stefan said, giving Jaskier a light slap on the back.
Ordinarily Jaskier wouldn’t have found the work too tiring, but with the events of the past few days he soon found himself feeling lightheaded and needed to sit down lest he pass out. Stefan for once didn’t complain about him not helping, simply getting on by himself.
Ana had come back from whatever errand she’d been on to find him breathing hard and trembling where he sat on the edge of the cart. “Stefan, what did you do to him,” she asked as her husband returned.
“Nothing love. He was just helping move the grain.”
She gave Stefan a disapproving glare, but Jaskier waved off her concern. He was already feeling a little better and could probably stand without any consequences, though he wasn’t quite ready to test that theory.
Ana let him be for the time being, instead sorting through whatever she’d bought at the market nearby. He paid her little mind, focussing on trying to still the trembling in his limbs as Stefan unloaded the last of the grain.
“Now, I don’t presume to know what’s the matter with you but you’re not deaf and you don’t look like an idiot,” Ana said unprompted. Jaskier gave her a look of confusion, unsure whether he ought to be offended. “Pardon, I only meant I was hoping you could write so you could at least tell me your name since you don’t seem to be one for talking.”
She held out a stick of charcoal and what looked like a notice torn from the nearby board. “I couldn’t get my hands on any parchment so this’ll have to do I’m afraid, but you can write on the back of that,” she explained. Jaskier took the items gratefully and wrote out his name for her, his hand shaking slightly.
“It’s nice to meet you properly Jaskier,” she said warmly. “Can I ask where you’re going? It’s just that me and Stefan have business further north and I was wondering if you needed a ride.”
Jaskier hadn’t really had the opportunity or energy to stop and think about his destination, only that he needed to get as far north as he could as fast as possible. Oxenfurt was likely the only place he’d feel safe. It was far away from the fighting, and he already had a place to stay there, though it was conditional on him working for the academy. Still, it was his only real option, so he wrote the city’s name down for Ana to see.
She nodded. “It’s a bit further than we’d normally go, but I could probably persuade Stefan to drop you off there. There’s always goods that need moving in cities.”
He wanted to tell her it was fine; they didn’t need to go out of their way on his behalf. He’d find a way to manage on his own. He had before after all, though granted that was when he had a way to make money. She must have seen the panic on his face as she tutted at him before firmly laying her hand on his arm to calm him. “It’s alright dear, it’s no trouble. Times like these, we need to help each other out where we can for the sake of kindness, don’t we.”
Jaskier suddenly felt overwhelmed, a different kind of choked feeling in his throat making itself known and his eyes welling up, though his body was hardly in any fit state to be producing tears. Instead, he swallowed the lump in his throat and gave her a grateful nod. That was how Stefan found them.
“Is he alright?” he asked.
“Jaskier’s fine. I was just telling him we’re taking him to Oxenfurt,” Ana said.
“Are we now,” he said dryly before walking around the other side of the cart.
“I’ll talk him around,” she said to Jaskier quietly, giving him a quick pat on the arm before letting go. “Oh, before I forget, this is for you,” she said, rummaging through her bag before handing him an apple. “Don’t you dare try to give it back,” she said before Jaskier even had a chance to think about it.
In the end Stefan was easy to persuade to go to Oxenfurt. They stayed in town overnight before heading out at first light. Jaskier didn’t get much sleep again, too fearful of the nightmares he knew would come. He fought against the pull of sleep but still found himself waking a handful of times, a cut-off cry dying in his throat, swallowed along with the pain. He dozed in the back of the cart once they set off, the constant rocking motion soothing enough to ease his mind but interrupted with jarring bumps regularly to keep him from true sleep.
Ana insisted on passing him more food at every opportunity. He suspected she was used to dealing with children of her own, and likely grandchildren too. He wondered why a couple of their age would continue to travel, especially during a war, but then he supposed he too was considered by many to be too old to still wander the continent as a bard.
While he had wound down his travels since the disastrous dragon hunt, he still performed on the road for a solid six months during the warmer months. He struggled to imagine a future where he remained in just one place forever. There was simply so much of the world to see. Ana and Stefan likely felt similarly as they showed no resentment for their jobs.
Whenever they stopped at a town or village, Jaskier would help Stefan move their cargo, whether it be grain, vegetables or other goods. He wanted to be useful, and Stefan certainly seemed to appreciate the effort. It was easier the second time, likely thanks to Ana’s insistence that he keep his strength up. By his second night on the road with them, he was exhausted enough that he fell into a dreamless sleep, free from the plague of nightmares.
It took almost two weeks for them to wind their way north to Oxenfurt. Ana was reluctant to let him go, making him promise to look after himself before she gave him a tight hug. Even Stefan told him his help would be missed, followed by a manly slap on the shoulder. It was about as emotional as Jaskier had seen him get. He thanked them as best he could with his limited scraps of paper before parting ways in the market.
Now that he was back within the city, the streets he’d once called home felt claustrophobic as he made his way through the crowds. He tried to stick to the quieter streets which unfortunately meant it took almost twice as long as usual to reach the academy and there were still people everywhere.
It was the middle of the day so while the streets were packed, the halls at the academy itself were blessedly empty as teaching was still going on. He made his way up to his rooms quickly, passing a few other members of staff heading to their next class. He heard someone say his name as he passed but he didn’t stop. He couldn’t face anyone yet. With Ana and Stefan he’d been mostly fine. They didn’t know him and had no idea what he’d lost. But here he was famous, and he wasn’t ready for everyone to know he could no longer do what he was famous for.
He had almost made it to his rooms when an irritatingly familiar voice called out to him from ahead. “Jaskier!” Valdo Marx said, coming down the hallway towards him. On a good day, Jaskier could just about tolerate his presence. He had a terrible habit of talking over everyone else, making it feel like any conversation was really just a chance for him to monologue. On a bad day however, things could get ugly between them, usually ending with Jaskier about ready to take a swing at him just to get him to shut up. He hadn’t done so since he was much younger, but if he didn’t leave Jaskier be, he might just try it again today.
“Wow, you look terrible,” Valdo said blithely, coming to a stop directly in Jaskier’s way. Jaskier glared at him in warning. Now really was not the time. Valdo ignored the warning, prattling on instead. “You know, since you disappeared without a word, I’ve been forced into giving your lectures. The least you could’ve done was leave a note. Where did you even go?”
Jaskier kept glaring at him, his patience wearing dangerously thin. Valdo had the audacity to keep looking at him expectantly, as though he was owed an answer for the hardship of taking on three extra classes for two weeks while Jaskier was standing before him, the ash from Sodden still staining his clothes.
Jaskier tried to step around him, but Valdo blocked the way. “Come on,” he chided, infuriatingly condescending. “What’s the matter? Cat got your tongue?”
Jaskier saw red. He was already well past his limit of what he could handle. He punched Valdo square in the nose, too sudden for Valdo to do anything to stop it. He grabbed at his nose with a pained cry, drawing the attention of some students loitering at the far end of the hallway. Jaskier just shoved him aside and hurried off to his rooms.
He made it to the door without further incident, swiping the spare key from the top of the doorframe with shaking hands. Once he finally made it inside, he shut the door and leant against it before sinking to the floor. He’d thought he would feel relieved to have made it back. Instead, he was just numb. He was home, but he was hardly in one piece, irreparably broken. He wasn’t the same man who had left, and he knew deep down he never would be again.
A sob welled up unbidden, escaping as a wretched, strangled thing as his throat seized against the sound. More followed, most of which he tried to swallow down lest he choke, pain prickling in his throat. If there was anyone to see him now, he was sure he’d make a truly pathetic sight. As it was, he was alone.
Without the pressure of needing to get to safety, his mind started racing a mile a minute. He was safe, but for how long? How long would the academy let him stay here if he wasn’t any use to them? Where was he to go when they inevitably kicked him out? How would he support himself when he couldn’t so much as hum a single note?
He wasn’t sure how long he stayed there on the floor, hiding his face in his arms to block the world out. Once his tears had run dry and he’d sat in misery for a while longer, he finally got back up. There were more comfortable places he could have a breakdown after all.
Above everything else, the hunger and the desire to bathe, he needed to hide, like a small, scared creature. The thought of leaving his rooms to go to either the baths or the dining hall downstairs filled him with dread, so he settled for cleaning himself with the basin of water left in his room, a bar of soap and a cloth. While an actual bath would have been preferable, being able to wash away the last reminder of Sodden from his skin and putting on clean clothes helped calm his nerves a little.
There was nothing he could do about his hunger without leaving his rooms, so he drew all the curtains closed and crawled into bed with a growling stomach. Sleep was tempting, despite it still being the middle of the day. He wasn’t ready to face the nightmares yet though, so he just lay there, hidden under the blankets until it finally got dark outside.
He must have fallen asleep at some point as he woke the next morning to light creeping through the gap in the curtains. He had no urge to get up, so he just lay there. There was nothing that particularly appealed to him. His lute was gone, likely destroyed in the initial explosion at Sodden, and even if he did have it, his desire to play was entirely absent. For the first time, he realised there were no songs running through his head, no new compositions at the back of his mind, waiting to be written. It was eerily quiet in his head without them. Another thing he’d lost to the flames he supposed. Another piece of his soul consumed to feed the fire that took so many lives.
He tracked the slivers of light across the walls for several hours until a loud knock at the door broke the oppressive silence. He ignored it, waiting for whoever it was to go away and leave him be. The knocking only became louder and more insistent. “Jaskier I know you’re in there!” Priscilla called. “Open the door or I’ll kick it down.”
Jaskier knew that was no empty threat as she had done just that many years previous when he had pulled a spectacularly stupid prank and promptly hidden from the consequences. Reluctantly he rolled out of bed and shuffled over to the door. He unlocked it, opening it just enough to peek around the corner but not enough to give her entry, hiding himself in the gloom.
“So, you are alive then,” she said, sounding affronted. “You’ve had us all worried sick. You disappeared without a word then Valdo said you came back yesterday and assaulted him, and while normally I’d tell him to piss off, his nose is broken, and the students have been coming up with wild stories about what happened.”
Jaskier hadn’t meant to cause a scene with his return and had the sense to at least look ashamed of his actions. Priscilla narrowed her eyes at him, no doubt expecting him to have some kind of explanation for her. “Are you alright?” she asked softly, her outrage forgotten as the tension visibly drained from her shoulders.
He shook his head. There was no point in trying to lie to her when the truth was obvious. She looked at him strangely then, perhaps trying to figure out what was wrong with him. “Can I come in?”
It was tempting to say no, to send her away and not have the conversation that was sure to follow. But she sounded so worried, he would hate for her to go feeling worse than she did before she came. Hesitantly he nodded and stepped back, opening the door wider for her to enter.
“Why have you got the curtains drawn in the middle of the day?” she asked as he closed the door, plunging the room back into darkness. He couldn’t answer until she turned to look at him, at which point he just shrugged.
“May I?” she asked, already crossing the room to the window. He nodded but she had her back to him, pulling the curtain open anyway. He winced at the bright light, having to lift an arm to shield his eyes. “That’s better,” she said brightly to herself before turning her attention back to him.
He knew he must make a pitiful sight. The quick wash he’d had yesterday had only been enough to get the worst of the dirt and ash off his skin. It had been weeks since he’d shaved and he had the beginnings of a scruffy beard. His hair was likely a terrible mess as he had been neglecting it in favour of lying in bed all day and he hadn’t eaten or slept properly since leaving the academy two weeks ago, despite Ana’s best efforts against the former.
Despite her best effort not to show it, he could tell Pricilla was taken off guard by his appearance in the light as her previously bright and genuine smile faltered before she dropped it altogether. “By the gods, what happened to you,” she said, crossing the room quickly. He hung his head, wishing not for the first time that he could just disappear. She brought her hands up to hold his arms when he was within her reach, taking him in up close before lifting a hand to his cheek.
Her hand was warm and soft, and he couldn’t help but lean into her touch a little. “Jaskier, please talk to me,” she pleaded. He could only sigh, frustration and grief rearing their ugly heads once again. He took her hand in his own and removed it from his face as tears began to well in his eyes. He shook his head as the first one fell, his eyes fixed on her hand in his instead of facing her, running his thumb over the back of her hand.
“You don’t want to?” she probed gently. He closed his eyes, dropping her hand then. “You can’t,” she said, realisation dawning. “Oh Jaskier, I’m so sorry.” She pulled him into a hug, almost crushing in its intensity. It was exactly what he needed.
He hugged her back, clinging on as though she was his only lifeline as he began to sob. He choked on each little noise that escaped him, resulting in a fair amount of hiccupping. Priscilla just held him through it, rubbing his back and murmuring reassurances. He wasn’t entirely sure what she was saying but just hearing her voice was enough to help keep him grounded.
When his tears finally subsided, she led him to sit in a nearby chair before disappearing into the small room he used as an office. She returned several minutes later with a few sheets of parchment and a stick of charcoal, handing it over to him. He looked between her and the items in confusion.
“We’re not going to get very far if you can’t tell me anything. I know you know a bit of sign, but I don’t so you’ll just have to write it down for me,” she said, taking the seat beside him.
When he made no move to start writing first, she prompted him with a question. “Where did you go?”
“Sodden,” he wrote before turning the page so she could see.
“You went to Sodden?” she said, incredulous. “What possessed you to go there when Nilfgaard was about to attack?”
“Can’t tell you.”
“Jaskier,” she said in warning. He responded by underlining the word “can’t” twice. He loved her dearly, but he was not about to go delving into the past he’d tried so hard to bury.
“Fine. But what happened to your voice? Why can’t you speak? Were you injured?”
He shook his head as an answer to all three. “Not hurt. Don’t know,” was all he could offer.
“Is it going to get better?”
While he hadn’t been to a healer about it yet, he could already tell it would be a pointless endeavour. Something was irreparably broken within him. The cost of using his fire on such a scale had exacted the highest price. He wasn’t going to be able to recover what he’d lost. “No.”
Priscilla nodded sadly, thankfully not pushing for further details, though he knew the questions would come back eventually. “Right,” she said, shaking herself out of the melancholy that had fallen over them. “I’m going to talk to the head of faculty and sort the whole Valdo mess out for you. He’ll want to see you eventually, but I can probably buy you a couple of days. You need to do something about… all this,” she said, gesturing to his general appearance. “I’ll come back with some food later since you’re clearly in no fit state to leave this room yet.”
Before he could write anything down, she was already standing. He wanted to thank her, for just listening and helping him out when he so badly needed it. “It’s alright, Jaskier. I know,” she said, rubbing his shoulder as he reached for the charcoal. “Try to sort yourself out. I won’t be much longer than an hour.” With a final reassuring smile she left, the door closing softly behind her.
Jaskier ended up having two days of relative calm before the head of faculty insisted he meet with him. Priscilla insisted on going with him, not that he wanted to fight her on that. After all, it was easier to have her speak for him than painstakingly write down longwinded answers. She helped explain to him that Jaskier had been called away to Sodden on important business shortly before the attack by Nilfgaard and had lost his voice as a result of an injury. It was a small lie but also the most plausible explanation he could give. Priscilla backed him up and eventually they came to an agreement that Jaskier could stay as long as he helped mark assignments as he was in no fit state to continue teaching.
The whole thing with Valdo Marx was swept under the rug as Jaskier admitted he punched him but had only just returned from Sodden and had hardly been of sound mind. He still wasn’t in all honesty, but he was at least now able to look after himself thanks to Priscilla constantly checking in on him.
He spent most of his time hiding in his rooms still, unwilling to subject himself to the myriad of questions he was sure to come from the rest of the staff and students. He still lacked the confidence to go out without Pris by his side but after the first few times she’d snapped at someone for being too nosy he was mostly left alone. Everyone knew by now that he’d been through something and that he no longer spoke for whatever reason.
While most people no longer tried talking to him directly, the rumours still followed him like a shadow. He paid most of them no mind, but some of them got to him. Students talked about him like he was dangerous after so-and-so had seen him “brutally attack” Marx. They watched him warily, leaving as much space between them as possible when he passed them in the halls.
The staff weren’t much better, talking about him behind his back like he he’d lost his hearing along with his voice. While they didn’t say he was dangerous, he’d heard plenty of accusations that he was secretly working with Nilfgaard. The strangest one of all was that he wasn’t really Jaskier but a spy using a glamour or a doppler, and that he didn’t talk because it would give him away. That one he didn’t mind so much due to its absurdity, but he wished he could just be left alone.
Priscilla made a point of stopping by to check on him a few times a day. At first it had irritated him, wishing he could just be left alone to his misery, but now he was grateful. He didn’t like to think how dark his mind would have gotten without her there to pull him out of it. He still wasn’t sleeping well, the nightmares waking him more often than not. Though they were no longer quite so vivid, he still woke gasping for breath, his heart pounding in his chest and his shirt soaked in sweat. He often needed a minute to convince himself he wasn’t soaked in his own blood, taking several deep breaths to fill his lungs.
Overall, he was coping. He couldn’t call it living, and he certainly wasn’t enjoying anything about his life, but he was… well he was here. Nothing brought him any joy. Music was bland and only reminded him of what he’d lost, and writing poems or prose was merely an exercise in frustration as he lacked even a sliver of inspiration. When he wasn’t working, he just sat and stared out the window or maybe took a nap. That was often how Priscilla found him.
She had enough of what she called “moping”, and fair, he might be moping a bit, but he also couldn’t see a way out of the hole he was trapped in. Even spending time with her, one of his closest and dearest friends felt like monumental effort. He could tell she was really trying for his benefit however, so he didn’t tell her to not bother coming. He knew he was no fun to be around.
“We’re going out tonight,” she announced one afternoon as she came into his office space. Jaskier looked up from the truly terrible poem from one of the first year students he was marking, raising an eyebrow. “Don’t look so worried, I don’t mean we’re going to a tavern.” She pulled out a seat on the opposite side of his desk and flopped down with a surprising amount of grace. “I’ve finally managed to find someone who can teach us to sign,” she said excitedly.
That sparked some interest in him for the first time in a long time and it must have shown on his face as Pris sat up straighter. He’d taught her to fingerspell, but it was still slow between them and only really worked for a word or two at a time. He had no idea she was interested in actually learning sign. “I’ve been looking for a while now, but I didn’t want to say anything in case I couldn’t find anyone. But earlier they finally got back to me, and we can start tonight!”
The lessons themselves were largely unremarkable, though they did help to break up the bleak monotony of his life. They consisted mostly of the two of them repeating a handful of signs and trying to remember what they had already covered. Jaskier had a slight advantage in this as he had far more free time to practice by himself than Pris but together they slowly began to build up their vocabulary to the point where they could have a simple conversation, supplemented by spoken words and scribbled notes.
A month after returning to Oxenfurt, Jaskier found he’d finally settled as much as he believed was possible. Most of his time was spent in his rooms still, either working or just avoiding everyone else. Sometimes when teaching was done for the day he would venture out around the grounds or browse the many shelves in the library. Priscilla would drop by as usual when she had a break, and they would talk in sign. They were both getting fairly good at it, but unlike her he couldn’t just say what he wanted to out loud when he stumbled. He was infinitely grateful for a faster way to communicate, but his limited vocabulary and unfamiliarity with the syntax left him feeling like he couldn’t express himself properly.
He still avoided other people as much as possible since he knew none of them would know sign. They would undoubtably have questions, so he’d be forced to write things down for them or ignore them entirely. Neither option was particularly appealing. It left him with only Pris to talk to, and while he was glad for her ongoing support, it felt like he was trapped.
He wished he could say he missed playing his lute, performing for an audience of adoring fans as they sang along to his songs. He couldn’t, however. He had no desire to even pick up an instrument, let alone play. It was like whatever void within him that had taken his voice had also taken everything he’d once found enjoyable, sucking all the colour out of life, leaving him in perpetual grey.
He had no real purpose beyond marking papers. He was surviving, but he wasn’t living. It was enough, he supposed. He could easily have died that day at Sodden and while he was barely a shadow of who he’d been before, this life was better than nothing.
Priscilla could tell he was unhappy but there was nothing she could do to fix it and she knew it. She had suggested more than once that he take a walk through the city, just to get him outside for the sake of it. He eventually caved and went out one afternoon after much nagging.
The sky was overcast but it didn’t look like it would rain. He was wandering through the market, idly looking at the various stalls. Once he would have spent far too much time looking at each item laid out, appreciating the craftsmanship or chatting with the stall owner. Now the noise just gave him a headache, so he stuck to the edges. It felt like a mistake being here.
He was about to turn around and head back when he heard a cry. Scanning the crowd, he saw nothing out of the ordinary. The cry came again accompanied by a child crying and shouting. It seemed to be coming from one of the side streets a little further down, so Jaskier went to investigate.
Two men appeared to be harassing a woman and her daughter, shouting some nonsense about elven scum. The burlier man shoved the woman, her back slamming against the wall as her young daughter cried. The rational part of Jaskier knew he didn’t stand a chance in a fight with those two, that he’d be better off walking away. He’d never been rational though.
He rounded the corner and marched down the narrow street, his eyes fixed on the two men. The shorter of the two spotted him. He sneered at Jaskier, tapping his friend on the arm to let him know they had company.
“You should walk away,” the bigger man warned, turning away from the woman momentarily. “This don’t concern you.”
Jaskier would have liked to spit insults at the pair of them. Instead, he came to stand just a little too close, maintaining eye contact with them, practically begging for a fight. The end result was the same as the two men turned on him, giving the woman a chance to grab her child and flee. Jaskier tried to fight back as best he could, but he was easily outmatched. He was quickly shoved to the ground where he tried to curl into a ball to protect his head and ribs when they started kicking him. The men quickly lost interest when he stopped fighting back and pissed off, heading towards the market, the opposite direction the woman had run, spitting at him as they passed.
Jaskier slowly pulled himself back to his feet with the support of the wall, wincing at the bruises he could already feel forming. This probably wasn’t what Priscilla had had in mind when she’d told him to go out. Still, despite the new aches in his body he felt somewhat good about himself for the first time in a long time.
He had no idea where the woman had run off to, but he hoped she had found somewhere safe. Ever since it became known that Nilfgaard was taking in elven refugees, it wasn’t uncommon for people to harass those with elven blood. Any hint of pointed ears brought insults and threats, and more frequently now actual violence. Many elves had already fled the city, but even more remained. They had nowhere to go, the entire North was rioting against their existence. They tried to justify their reasons for attacking innocents, but Jaskier along with anyone with half a brain knew it was nothing more than hatred for those seen as “other”.
For now it was the elves, but already he’d heard news that there’d been a few instances of dwarven targets. Soon it would be anyone not completely human, and it wouldn’t stop there either. If your skin wasn’t the right colour, if your accent wasn’t right, if you didn’t think with the crowd, you were other, an enemy to be wiped out. Jaskier knew if things reached far enough down the line he would become a target too, refusing to fall in line with bigotry. Fuck it all, it was a shitshow.
With an arm around his sore ribs, he stumbled his way out of the alley. He didn’t fancy having to push his way through the crowded market, so he took a detour past the docks as the streets there were quieter. By then, some of the pain had dulled and he was able to walk normally, though breathing too deeply ached something fierce.
As he walked, he passed one of the many warehouses. There was no one around that he could see but he could hear a woman’s voice, somewhat frantic. He would have just kept walking if it weren’t for the distinctive sound of a child crying.
He ventured into the warehouse, looking between the stacked crates for the source of the noise. “Hush now my love,” the woman said, her voice drifting over from the back. “It’s important we keep quiet now.”
As he’d suspected, Jaskier found the elven woman and her daughter carefully tucked away between the crates. He never would have known they were there if it hadn’t been for the crying. The woman startled at his sudden presence, putting herself between him and her child. He held his hands up to show he meant no harm and took a step back. She looked him up and down, no doubt trying to figure out if he was there to hurt them.
“You’re the man from earlier,” she said warily as she recognised him. Jaskier nodded, still keeping his hands where she could see them. Behind her, the girl’s crying had finally quietened, small hands gripping her mother’s skirts tightly. The woman relaxed slightly, tightly wound tension unspooling, still ready to run but no longer quite so fearful.
“Can you help us?” she asked with an edge of desperation. “Our home is no longer safe. We need to leave the city but—” She looked away with a shake of her head, drawing her daughter closer to her.
He wasn’t sure what he could do to help really, but they clearly weren’t safe here. They’d be found eventually, at which point they would either have to flee again or face more violence. He couldn’t leave them like this.
He gave her a nod and motioned for them to stay in place for the time being, hoping she understood. He walked with purpose along the docks, trying to figure out if any ships were heading south, catching snippets of conversations from the sailors he passed. He tried talking to some of the captains, but few wanted anything to do with him when all he could do was start scribbling on a slip of paper.
Eventually he found a man willing to listen. He confirmed his ship was headed to Cidaris before heading to Cintra, or Xin’trea as it was often called now. Jaskier was surprised to hear the North still traded with Nilfgaard and the captain must have seen it on his face as he explained money was still money and as Nilfgaard was taking in more elves every day, they needed supplies from somewhere.
“Can you take passengers?” he asked.
“Depends,” he shrugged. “Space for passengers is space not used for cargo.”
“I’ll pay.”
The captain gave a satisfied nod at that. “Alright, how many?”
“A friend and child.”
“Not yourself?” he asked, raising a brow.
Jaskier shook his head. The captain eyed him sceptically before shrugging and naming his price, which was a bit steep in Jaskier’s opinion, but he managed to agree to a slightly lower fee as he could pay straight away.
With what he hoped was safe passage secured, Jaskier went back for the woman. Thankfully she was still where he’d left her. She was now sat on the floor with her daughter in her lap, cradled in her arms. She startled again as Jaskier approached but she didn’t get up to flee. He made a motion for her to follow and she got to her feet, hastily arranging her long hair so that it mostly hid her ears.
Jaskier led the pair of them to the captain who was still milling about on the dock. “This them?” he asked as they walked up. Jaskier nodded and the captain turned to look at the woman and her child properly. Despite her best efforts, her pointed ears were showing, as were her daughter’s. Jaskier held his breath, hoping he hadn’t just led them into a trap.
Instead of anger or disgust, the captain’s face to soften as he laid eyes upon the sleeping girl. “You’ll be safe on board,” he said, keeping his voice low so as not to wake the girl. “Get below deck, quickly now. We leave for Cintra soon.”
“Thank you,” the woman said tearfully to Jaskier then the captain before making her way onto the ship. With his charges now safely delivered, Jaskier began counting out the agreed coin.
“I won’t take coin for the kid,” the captain said pensively. “She don’t deserve the violence here. I’ll get them to their own people safe.” Jaskier handed him the coin for just the woman, glad for the knowledge that the two of them would be safe in the captain’s capable hands.
It was beginning to get dark when Jaskier finally made it back to his rooms. Priscilla was waiting impatiently outside the door, arms crossed. “Where the bloody hell have you been?” she almost yelled as he rounded the corner. He shook his head and tried to wave her off. “By the gods, did you get into a fight?” she asked as he got closer, apparently too upset with him to even attempt signing. He had no idea what state his face was in but judging by the ache in his jaw he must have at least some bruising.
“I’m fine,” he signed before unlocking the door.
She clearly didn’t believe him but refrained from making any further comments before they were inside. “When I suggested you go for a walk, I didn’t mean you should go fight a banshee,” she said dryly.
“Wasn’t a banshee.”
“So what was it then?” she asked crossing her arms again.
“Bigots.”
“Ah,” she said, calming slightly as concert turned to curiosity. “Did you win? No, stupid question. If you’d won, you wouldn’t look like… this,” she said gesturing at the whole of him.
He rolled his eyes as he gingerly pulled off his coat, wincing as the movement pulled at his ribs. He really hoped they weren’t broken, just bruised.
“What were you doing then, other than getting beaten up? Or was that your entire plan for the evening?”
“Helping elves get safe,” he said haltingly, still unsure of the language. “Mother and child.”
Priscilla only nodded in understanding. “Well, I hope in the future that if you ever decide to help again, it involves taking less of a beating, for your sake.”
“You won’t tell me to stop?” he asked.
“I know you too well,” was all she said. “If you’ve decided your latest crusade is to help the elves then I wish you luck. I’m well aware I won’t be able to convince you otherwise. I’ll leave you to get sorted out. I’ll see you tomorrow.” With that, she walked out the door, leaving Jaskier with much to think about.
The situation was only going to get worse for the elves, any common fool could see that. He’d gotten lucky today with the captain, but that wouldn’t always be the case. And Pris was right, he wouldn’t be able to throw himself head first into every fight. No, if he wanted to really make a difference, he’d need to organise some kind of system, figure out which ships were safe, find somewhere he could have those in need of help wait until the right time to keep them off the streets. He went to his desk, grabbed a clean sheet of parchment and began writing a list of things he would need.
Chapter 4
Summary:
Yennefer discovers the identity of the mysterious Sandpiper and Jaskier ends up in more trouble than he can deal with.
Notes:
Before we get into this chapter, I just wanted to make it clear that Jaskier does not speak out loud except for a few instances where it's explicitly stated. Otherwise he is either signing or commumicating in some other way which I have tried to make clear. I've written it as normal dialogue because for one, that seems to be the correct way to write characters who use any sign language and two, it makes it easier to read as "signed" ends up feeling much clunkier than "said" when repeated. If that is incorrect, then please do let me know, I'm working off what I could find on google.
Sorry this chapter ended up a little later than I'd planned, dnd got int he way of editing over the weekend and then I had a cold and zero concentration. Thank you so much for the lovely comments on the last chapter and I hope you enjoy this one just as much!
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Yennefer didn’t think her luck could get any worse. After refusing to remain in the clutches of the Brotherhood, she had cut the Nilfgaardian free and made her escape, only to end up being chased through Gors Velen into the sewers where she had almost been dragged under by some tentacled monster with far too many teeth. Now she found herself stuck waiting with the elves in the cellar of some backwater tavern in Oxenfurt for some apparent saviour calling himself the Sandpiper. It was utterly ridiculous, and she might have fallen into a fit of hysterical laughter if it wasn’t also deadly serious.
Above them, she could hear singing and cheering. It wasn’t a song she recognised, nor did she particularly care to listen. She was exhausted and filthy after being on the run for an entire day and wading through the sewers. All she wanted was some quiet and a bed. Instead she had to settle for sitting on the floor in an empty corner and the caterwauling above.
She closed her eyes and rested her head against the wall. No one disturbed her, either because of the smell coming off her clothes or because she must have looked pathetic enough that they all took pity on her. At least the Nilfgaardian was behaving for once and also keeping a low profile.
Not much more than a couple of hours could have passed when they heard the bolt to the door slide open. The tavern above was still very much full, the noise still as irritating as it had been when she’d arrived. Everyone in the small room tensed, backing up against the walls, though there was nowhere to hide. Yennefer pulled her hood up to hide her face. She had no idea who was coming. Even if it was the Sandpiper, there was no guarantee he wouldn’t just hand her over to the brotherhood. He helped the elves, not fugitives.
She remained sitting in her corner, mostly hidden behind the elves standing in front of her. She couldn’t see the door as it swung open. “It’s alright everyone,” the elf who had initially greeted them and who seemed to be in charge said. “This is the Sandpiper.”
She expected him to speak to them then, either some speech about helping them, or even just instructions on their next steps. Nothing came. Instead, after a brief pause the elf told them the next ship wouldn’t be leaving until the following evening and that they would have to stay put.
She thought it was strange that the Sandpiper himself wasn’t telling them this. Perhaps it was an effort to conceal his identity. Curious, she peeked between the bodies standing in front of her. She couldn’t see a great deal in the dim light, just a glimpse of a reddish leather coat. One with a very familiar pattern. At risk of drawing attention to herself, she stood, trying to get a better view as foolish hope churned in her gut.
She couldn’t quite believe her eyes. Jaskier was standing by the door, signing to the elf, somehow alive. Of course he was the bloody Sandpiper. She pulled her hood down, stepping around the elves, ignoring the annoyed looks sent her way as she pushed through. Jaskier must have seen her coming as he became distracted, turning to look at her and forgetting about whatever he was trying to say. They just stared at each other for a second before Yennefer was practically flinging herself across the short space between them.
He took a couple of steps towards her, meeting her half way. As soon as he was within reach, she pulled him into a desperate hug. He welcomed her with his own kind of fervour, holding her tight for a moment before he let her go. “Yen,” he rasped, wincing even though his voice was barely above a whisper.
“I thought you were dead,” she said in disbelief, not quite willing to let him go just yet, her hands still on his arms. It was clear in his eyes that he had many questions for her, but this was neither the time nor the place. “We can talk later,” she promised, stepping back to give him some space. He seemed reluctant to take his eyes off her but nodded before going back to signing to the elf.
Whatever had affected his voice before at Sodden clearly still plagued him. She had plenty of questions of her own she wanted answers to, chief among them being how the fuck he was alive. All these months, she had thought him dead. Upon finding the elves moving toward Cintra once she’d woken up in the forest, she had searched for any sign of him but found none. No one would tell her where he was, so she had assumed the worst. While Filavandrel hadn’t seemed like the type to resort to violence for the sake of it, he had possessed a clear and cold hatred towards Jaskier. That combined with the way he had dragged Jaskier away had led Yennefer to the most obvious conclusion that he’d been killed.
That belief, that he was dead, had been a heavy burden to bear these past months on top of the loss of her magic, knowing it was entirely her fault for dragging him to Sodden in the first place. She’d even told Triss as much when she’d told Yennefer of how he saved her from the fire at the gate. After carrying that belief around for well over a month, the admission had felt like the final acceptance, to say it out loud and claim responsibility for his death. It hadn’t helped ease the guilt of taking him to his end, but the weight of it had no longer seemed quite so heavy. At least returning to Aretuza had helped with that, if nothing else.
Jaskier only stayed long enough to let them all know what was going on, that they would have to remain here until the tavern cleared out. He would return later with some food and to let them know when the tavern had emptied. He didn’t say a word throughout, communicating only through sign language and having the elf translate for him.
Yennefer had once been fluent in sign, having had to learn it to communicate with king Virfuril’s third daughter who had been born near deaf. It had been many decades since she had last had to use it however and she found herself struggling to parse most of the signs he was making.
He only stayed long enough to tell them this before leaving, bolting the door behind him once more, sparing Yennefer one last look before disappearing. The nervous energy in the room had dissipated somewhat now that they had some idea of what was going on and that they were in fact safe here. Everyone settled back down as much as was possible to get whatever rest they could manage.
Yennefer thought about returning to her corner to do the same but with the noise likely to continue for several more hours, sleep was sure to remain elusive. Instead, she approached the elf Jaskier had been talking to. “Can you teach me sign,” she asked. “I used to know it, long ago, but I’ve forgotten much of it.”
“I can certainly try. Not like there’s much else to pass the time,” he shrugged. He sat on his barrel by the door, like some kind of guard. Maybe he was, making sure it was only Jaskier who came down here. What they would do if it wasn’t someone they could trust, she didn’t know, short of fleeing out the back and making a break for it in the streets or back in the sewers.
He indicated for Yennefer to take a seat beside him on another barrel. “The name’s Akkar.”
“Yennefer,” she said. There was little point in hiding who she was since Ba’lian had already recognised her. She could have asked him to teach her instead, but he was a coward undeserving of her attention and seemed to be rightfully afraid of her after he’d abandoned Dermain, leaving him to be eaten by that creature.
The next few hours were spent going over what Yennefer could remember and refreshing much of her vocabulary. She was pleased to find it came back easily enough until she was able to hold a decent enough conversation at which point they took a break. The noise above was starting to die down, the musicians stopped playing and soon only the drunkards remained, calling to the barmaids for more drink.
“You know him,” Akkar said after several minutes of quiet between them. “The Sandpiper I mean.”
“I do,” she said. “Though I know him by a different name.”
Akkar didn’t press for details. There was good reason for Jaskier to keep his name secret. If word got out that Jaskier the bard was helping elves, there wouldn’t be many places he could hide with his reputation. “I’ve only known him for the past month or so, shortly after he started doing all this,” he said, gesturing to the small room. “I had planned to go to Xin’trea like everyone else, but I ended up staying.”
“Why?”
“He seemed like he needed help,” he shrugged. “He wasn’t fluent in sign then and couldn’t say a single word out loud. Telling everyone what he needed them to do was almost impossible until I started translating. Also, I think it helps if the first friendly face they see is that of an elf rather than a man.”
Yennefer didn’t like to think of Jaskier struggling like that. She wished she had looked more into fire magic while at Aretuza, but it hadn’t been a priority at the time. Also she suspected Stregobor would have used it as further evidence of her corruption or some such nonsense. She still had no idea why using fire magic had caused him to lose the ability to speak. She couldn’t imagine not being able to utter a single word and the fact that Jaskier was a bard only made it that much worse. Talking and singing was everything to him, his music giving him purpose. Her magic had been that for her.
“What happened to him?” Akkar asked.
“What do you mean?”
“Well, I’m assuming that since he’s only recently learnt to sign that he used to be able to speak?”
Yennefer nodded. “It was some kind of accident. I’m not entirely sure what caused it to be honest. I haven’t seen him in months, not since it happened.”
Akkar seemed to accept her vague answer and so they sat in silence for a few minutes longer, listening as the floorboards creaked above their heads.
“How has he been?” she asked eventually. “I know you didn’t know him before but…”
Akkar understood what she was trying to get at. “He seems… well I’m not sure what it I really. I don’t know him all that well, and I only ever see him here. But… I think he’s struggling with whatever happened to him. Like he’s missing something and trying to fill in the gaps.”
“Do you think he’s just doing this to make himself feel better?”
Akkar shrugged. “Honestly I don’t care why he’s doing it. He’s saved a lot of elven lives and very few men would choose to help us at a time like this. But no, I think he genuinely cares. He just sees us as people who need help, so that’s what he’s doing.”
And wasn’t that just Jaskier to his core. Under the grand performance, the bright clothes and loud songs and never ending idle chatter, he just wanted to make the world a better place to be. “He’s always been kind,” she said wistfully, resting her head back against the wall.
When Akkar said nothing further, she allowed her eyes to slip closed, exhaustion finally claiming its victory on her. It was hardly a comfortable position to sleep in, but she felt strangely safe in the knowledge that her life was in Jaskier’s hands.
Yennefer woke with a start at the sound of the bolt on the door sliding open with a dull thunk, louder than it had been before. It took her a second for her tired mind to realise it was because upstairs was now completely silent. The door swung open to reveal Jaskier carrying a heavy looking crate. After a quick nod, Akkar told them they could leave one at a time to relieve themselves and that there was food to be handed out.
Jaskier came inside and set the crate down before he started to hand out what looked like chunks of stale bread. It was better than nothing she supposed, and the elves accepted the food gratefully. He came to her last, handing over the last of the bread.
“Thank you, Sandpiper,” she said softly. He gave her a slight nod in return, the corners of his mouth pulling up in a slight smile. He hesitated for a moment before he nodded his head towards the door, gesturing for her to follow. “Lead the way,” she said.
Much to her surprise, he took her to the main room above. No one else was around and the only sounds came from the elves moving about below them. “I thought Filavandrel had killed you,” she said, breaking the silence since Jaskier evidently could not.
He turned to look at her sadly before averting his gaze. She could see him clench his jaw before he took a breath, as though he was having to work up to something. “Drink?” he asked, pointing to the bar. His voice was quiet, a barely there rasp that seemed to cause him pain if the way he winced was any indication.
“It’s alright,” she said, stepping closer to him to rest her hand on his arm. “While we were waiting down there, Akkar gave me a refresher in sign. As long as you don’t go too fast I should be able to understand you.” She could see the difference in him straight away, some of the tension leaving his shoulders as he let out a quiet sigh and nodded again before leading the way over to the bar.
“What happened to you?” she asked gently, taking a seat at the counter. He bobbed his head slightly as he searched for some cups, acknowledging her question but unable to answer with his hands occupied. After he placed the cups down in front of her, he began to sign.
“Filavandrel wanted to know why I was there,” he said, his hands moving haltingly. “I thought he was going to kill me, but he was called away. He left me tied up at the tree. You were gone.”
“Fringilla and I were taken into the ruins,” she said as he paused to fill the cups. “I tried looking for you when we came back out but no one tell me what happened to you.”
“The elves left for Cintra. I thought I was going to be left too but Filavandrel came back and let me go. Told me to run.”
“And you managed to get back here in one piece,” she said, finishing the story for him. He slid one of the cups towards her which she took. “To surviving,” she said, holding it up. He knocked his cup against hers before they both took a drink.
She couldn’t help the face she pulled as the bitter taste hit her. “By the gods,” she coughed. By the looks of it, Jaskier was having a similar reaction.
“I’m going to find something else. This is terrible,” he said, swallowing his drink with a grimace before turning away to wander across the room.
With nothing else to do, she just sat and watched him search for something that might pass as drinkable. He seemed smaller somehow, like he’d shrunk in on himself. He’d always been loud and bright, drawing everyone’s attention to himself. But he’d been stripped of that and moved like he was trying to avoid being noticed at all, even when it was just the two of them. It couldn’t just be a habit from his new job smuggling elves, at least not around her.
“How have you been coping?” she asked as he reached for a bottle of what looked to be wine. He gave her a questioning look as he made his way back over to the counter. “You still can’t speak. It must be hard for someone like you. How does a bard make money if he can’t sing?”
Hurt crossed his face and he somehow managed to withdraw further into himself. She hadn’t said it to be mean, she was just curious, but clearly it was still very much an open wound for him. “Not a bard anymore,” he said once he’d put the bottle down.
“At all?” she asked, mildly alarmed. “What about your lute? Surely you can still play.”
He shook his head, his expression filled with grief. “Lost it at Sodden.”
“Why haven’t you replaced it?”
“Didn’t want to. I…” he trailed off, hesitating like he was struggling to find the right words. “I’m not myself anymore,” he said eventually.
“What do you mean?” she asked.
“After Sodden, when I woke up, it felt like… there was a hole that had been carved out of me, left me empty and hollow. I—” he broke off, his face crumpling as he struggled through. “I don’t care about music any more. I feel nothing.”
She knew all too well what that gaping hole felt like, had known it the same as him when she realised her magic wasn’t just locked away by dimeritium but completely absent from her being. It had robbed her of her purpose, but she had held onto the tiniest sliver of hope as she travelled the continent, praying that there was a cure for her out there. Even now, she held on to the belief that in some dusty old library or healing temple she would find a solution. Jaskier, it seemed, had none of that. How he was even functioning with that kind of all-consuming grief was beyond her.
Before she could say anything else, footsteps came up the stairs from behind. Jaskier turned to look and was immediately on alert, reaching of the bottle of wine and brandishing it like a weapon. Yennefer turned to look then, only to see Cahir.
“It’s alright,” she said, going to stand in front of him, mostly to assure Jaskier but also to stop Cahir from getting any closer. “He’s with me.”
Jaskier looked anxiously between the two of them, lowering the bottle but not letting it go just yet. “I need to get to Cintra,” she said, getting to the reason she was even there in the first place. Behind her, Cahir grumbled under his breath. “The both of us,” she amended.
Slowly Jaskier set the bottle down, though his eyes didn’t leave Cahir’s. “The boat tonight will have room for you. You’ll have to stay here until then.”
“What’s he saying,” Cahir asked.
“He’s going to help us. Now get back down,” she said, ushering him down the stairs. She followed after him to make sure he actually did what she asked, sending a quick apologetic look back at Jaskier.
Yennefer didn’t have a chance to talk to Jaskier again until they were safely on board the ship. He was looking at her strangely and she could tell there was something on his mind. “Go on then, out with it.”
“What happened to you?” he asked.
“I’ve lived a long life. You’ll have to be more specific,” she said, being purposefully obtuse. She crossed her arms, trying to build up a wall between them, trying to protect herself.
He looked at her with a mix of tired curiosity and pity that somehow felt gentle instead of condescending. “Why are you here? Why do you need my help?”
“Chaos appears to be done with me,” she said quietly, hating to admit her weakness out loud.
“You’ve lost your magic too?” he asked, his expression now one of alarm. “How is that possible?”
Yennefer could only shrug. This was probably a conversation best kept private, so she switched to signing instead. “At Sodden, I channelled your fire through myself,” she said, her hands not quite as sure as his as she formed the signs. “It must have hurt me as it’s hurt you.”
“Yen… I’m so sorry,” he said, looking heartbroken. “It’s my fault.”
“No,” she said out loud, forgetting to sign in her need to cut that line of thinking off. “I’m the one who brought you to Sodden,” she signed. “I told you to use your fire. I took advantage of your power. I’m the one who should be apologising.”
He shook his head. “I knew what it might cost me going in,” he said slowly, making sure she understood. “I knew there was a chance I might die or be left crippled by it. You didn’t know that, and I’m sorry. I should’ve just done it on my own.”
She opened her mouth again to protest but he cut her off, his hands moving fluidly. “I’m not your responsibility. I made my own choices and I’ll live with the consequences,” he said. She didn’t think she’d ever seen him so… defeated. There was no fight in him, no spark or light.
“There’s still some hope for us,” she said. “I’m not going to stop until I’ve found a way to bring back my chaos, and as soon as I have, I’ll come back to you and find a way to make this right.”
“You can’t fix something that isn’t there,” he said.
“What do you mean?”
“My soul,” he said, his hand hovering over his heart for a moment before he lowered it. He half raised his hands as though he had more to say but ended up dropping them, averting his gaze from her in shame.
“No,” she said out loud, catching him off guard with the steel in her voice. “Look around you!” she continued, signing forgotten as she pointed to all the elves safely aboard the ship, on their way to a better life. “A man without a soul could never do this. You still choose to help these people, Jaskier. You still care. I know this… this-this thing inside feels hopeless. Believe me, I feel it too. But it’s not the end. It can’t be.” She took a stuttering breath, needing to calm herself for a second before she started shouting. “You may no longer be a bard, but you’ve found a new purpose, despite everything that’s happened to you.”
He was looking at her with tears in his eyes by the time she finished her speech. He looked fragile, like it would take the barest gust of wind to shatter him to pieces. And yet, at the same time she saw some of the light return to his eyes. “We’ll be alright,” she finished, with a determined nod.
He took a shaky breath, trying to regain some composure. They were running out of time, she knew. The ship would be leaving soon, and he would have to stay behind. “I hope so,” he said tentatively. He took another, steadier breath, standing up straight as he put the broken pieces of himself together in some semblance of being alright.
“Chaos could never be done with you, Yennefer. Of that much I am certain. So, if it’s all the same to you, goodbye, good luck…” He paused for a moment, a tentative smile making its way onto his face, the first genuine one she’d seen from him yet. “Good riddance,” he finished, falling back on the banter they used to share. It was a glimpse of normalcy and Yennefer found herself wanting to savour it.
“Same to you,” she said, not wanting to break the spell.
With that, he nodded at her one last time before turning to leave. After a quick glance around to make sure everything was as it should be, he headed up the stairs. She only looked away once he was out of sight, suddenly feeling very alone. In the months since Sodden, he’d been the only one to truly understand her pain, and now she was all alone once more, having to rely on a Nilfgaardian of all people for her safety.
She was about to find somewhere to get relatively comfortable for the journey when she heard a strangled cry from above, followed by a dull thud.
Jaskier woke with a splitting headache. The first thing he realised was that he was sitting down, not lying which was especially concerning since he didn’t remember going to sleep. He tried to move but found his arms and legs had been bound, sending icy panic through his veins, waking him up fully. He looked around, trying to determine where he was, but it was far too dark to make anything out. He tried pulling against the ropes binding his wrists, but they held fast.
A snap and a pulse of light caught his attention from the far side of the room, briefly illuminating a shadowy figure. Jaskier stilled his efforts to escape, straining his eyes for any sign of his captor. They snapped their fingers again, closer this time. Jaskier watched in horror as a flame danced between the person’s fingers before dissipating. It was the first trick he had learnt in secret at Ban Ard. He shuddered at the implications for him now.
As the figure continued stalking forward, Jaskier tried to shrink back in his chair, desperate to get away from whoever his captor was. He knew logically there must have been other mages who shared in his particular talents. He just hadn’t expected to ever cross paths with any of them. He had no idea how he’d been found, nor what this mage wanted from him. He just knew he was utterly terrified and completely defenceless.
Jaskier felt the weight of the chair shift as the mage leant on it, crowding into Jaskier’s space. He felt his breath on his face before he snapped again, the light blinding him momentarily. Jaskier had to close his eyes against it, blinking to chase away the spots left in his vision. The man’s face was far too close to his own, the flame sitting on his finger like some twisted imitation of a candle held in the small space between them.
“Hello, Jaskier,” the man said, his voice sending chills down his spine. Jaskier tore his eyes away from the flame to look at his face. The mage’s mouth was pulled in a sick parody of a grin, his eyes cold despite the fire Jaskier knew he must possess within. Jaskier didn’t think he’d be able to speak, even if he hadn’t already lost his voice. Terror stole all rational though, replaced by a primal urge to get as far away as possible.
“You’re not an easy person to find, you know,” he said calmly, as though they were just here for a polite chat. “I had assumed that the bard of the famous White Wolf would be easy to track down. So you can imagine my surprise when I heard you’d all but disappeared off the face of the continent.”
He finally stood back up, leaving Jaskier’s space. The flame on his finger dissipated, only to be replaced by the light of several actual candles with another snap of the mage’s fingers. Jaskier could see the room better now and realised he was back in the tavern he based his Sandpiper operations.
“My, you are quiet,” he said, catching Jaskier’s full attention once more. “From what I’d heard, you never shut up. What’s the matter, cat got your tongue?” he asked condescendingly.
Jaskier wanted to snipe back but with his arms tied, he was unable to make the signs. He had to settle for making the signs for “fuck off,” one-handed, though without being able to move properly it didn’t quite come out right. The movement caught the mage’s attention regardless, and though he likely didn’t understand what he was trying to say, he did seem to realise his initial remark wasn’t far from the truth.
“Ah, a mute,” he said. “No matter. I have other ways of getting what I want.” He gave another horrible grin. It reminded Jaskier of a monster getting ready to strike. “I’ll give you one chance to cooperate. I need information on Geralt of Rivia and his child surprise,” he said, circling Jaskier as he spoke.
Jaskier didn’t know what he expected him to say, didn’t know what he could say, even if he was able to speak. He had no idea where Geralt was, where he might be, nor if he had even claimed the girl yet, but even if he did, he knew he wouldn’t betray him.
“I need to know where he’s taking the Princess,” the mage said from behind, his breath hot against Jaskier’s ear. “And I will make you tell me, willingly or not.” He snapped his fingers again, a flame lighting up out of view, casting flickering shadows across the room.
The pain was relentless. Over and over Rience asked the same handful of questions. Where was Geralt, where might he take the Princess, what places did he consider safe. He had tried using his magic to enter Jaskier’s mind by force, to tear the knowledge out of him, but Jaskier had kept him out. Chaos wasn’t necessary to keep his mind safe after all. Even Yennefer hadn’t managed to get past his defences all those years ago, though he suspected if she cared less about hurting him she might have succeeded.
But this mage was clearly weaker than her, and Jaskier sure as hell wouldn’t forgive himself if any harm came to Geralt or the princess because of him, giving him the edge he needed to hold on. Despite his best efforts, the mage, Rience he’d said his name was, was still able to penetrate the surface level of his mind. Unlike Yennefer, he felt out of practice or simply unused to this kind of magic, wielding it more like a hammer than a knife, relying on brute force instead of precise strikes. Jaskier supposed in a twisted way he ought to consider himself lucky that a shitty mage had been sent after him and not one from the Brotherhood.
Jaskier had tried forcefully shoving him out of his head but without his chaos, it was simply impossible to remove him once he wormed his way in, so he focussed on not letting him get any further. This had the unfortunate side effect of allowing Jaskier to communicate telepathically with Rience, which only made him more determined to stay in Jaskier’s head.
Out of alternatives, Rience turned to violence, though Jaskier suspected it wouldn’t have taken long regardless. Every repeated question and refusal to answer was met by pain, either flame or fist. His chest and face were the most frequent targets, his skin already littered with burns and steadily darkening bruises.
The fire scared him the most. He’d never been afraid of it before, at least not ones that he hadn’t conjured into being. Even after he’d locked his chaos away, he’d always been safe in the knowledge that if he had to, he could redirect a flame, making it so it never touched him with its heat. Now he was utterly helpless as Rience did his best to make Jaskier scream and beg.
The act of screaming itself was its own secondary kind of torture. As he’d learnt the hard way, any sound he attempted to make caused his throat to seize, choking him with the feeling of swallowing glass. He had hoped at first that it was only words that caused it, but by testing his limits, he found out the hard way it included any noise he tried to make.
His choked off screams brought Rience a sick pleasure, his eyes burning with delight as he writhed and suffocated on his pain. He seemed to make it into a kind of game for himself, to see if he could hurt Jaskier enough for him to cause his own pain. Jaskier wanted nothing more than for it all to be over.
Daylight was spilling in through the dirty windows now. Rience had disappeared for several minutes, leaving Jaskier to his misery. He hadn’t gone far, his presence still very much there at the edges of Jaskier’s mind. His head hung down, too tired to lift it back up as blood dribbled from his mouth, bubbling up from his ruined throat. He found himself unable to bring himself to care enough to stop it from soaking into his trousers, not particularly wanting it in his mouth to begin with.
“I’ll be honest, I wasn’t expecting this,” Rience said as he came back into the room, circling around from behind. “You’re so secretive about your old friend the witcher.”
Jaskier could only let out a tremulous sigh, resigning himself to yet more torture, wishing desperately with everything he had that this would be over soon.
“Shall we try a different technique?”
“You know,” he said through their mental link, “I was just thinking about this, and I uh, I don’t think it’s your technique.” Falling back on humour was the only defence he had left. Even in his own thoughts he sounded weak, but he needed this to be over. He needed Rience to understand that he wasn’t going to give him what he wanted, that he was wasting his time. That he wasn’t worth the effort.
He lifted his head as Rience placed a chair right in front of him before sitting in it, crossing his legs leisurely as though he wasn’t about to start torturing Jaskier all over again. “I’ve not seen Geralt in months,” he continued. “Not since he abandoned me in Cairngorn, much— much like he abandoned his child surprise who I met only the once, when she was still in the womb.”
He tried to take a breath to get a grip on his emotions, just for long enough to say what he needed to. “I don’t know where they are, I don’t know where they’re going, and I don’t know why you’re doing this to me!”
“It’s such a shame you can’t be useful,” Rience said, uninterested and entirely ignoring everything he’d just said, reaching out to grab Jaskier’s hand instead. He tried to pull away but the rope keeping him tied to the chair limited his movement. “Did you know that fire is a forbidden source of chaos?” he asked. With a snap of his fingers, a flame ignited, dancing on his fingertip.
Jaskier pressed back into his chair, his body already shaking in anticipation of the pain. Rience was the very last person he wanted a lecture from about the dangers of fire magic, but he couldn’t tear his eyes from the flame. The mage carried on, either unaware or uncaring of Jaskier’s lack of a response. Or perhaps he was just enjoying his pain. “See, fire usually consumes those who draw from it. Burning their bodies, blackening their skin and turning their bones to ash.”
He was clearly trying to intimidate Jaskier now, but it wasn’t working. Jaskier was all too familiar with what fire could do to a person. In some sick way, he couldn’t help but think that they were more similar than different. Both of them had some natural affinity for fire magic, but while Jaskier spent his entire life running from it, Rience had embraced it. Looking into his dark, dead eyes now, Jaskier couldn’t help but be grateful that he’d chosen the path he had. He would have hated to become like him.
“Now, some mages can withstand the fire, are strong enough to control it,” Rience continued, watching as the flame wove between his fingers, a demonstration of his control.
“Fire always comes at a price,” Jaskier interrupted, trying to sound surer of himself than he felt. “Always.”
Rience stopped playing with the flame, narrowing his eyes at Jaskier. “What would you know of magic, bardling? Or are you even that, what with you having no voice?” The words hurt, despite the truth they held, or maybe because of it, like Rience was digging his fingers into an old wound, reopening it for his pleasure.
“You’re not the only one here with an affinity for fire,” he said, not letting him know how deep his words had cut.
The grin returned. “Well, I’d love a demonstration,” he said, the flame extinguishing. Jaskier let out a shaky sigh of relief, though he knew it could return just as quickly as it had gone.
“I can’t,” he said weakly.
“Ah, so more lies,” Rience said, though Jaskier could feel him pushing against his mind again, trying to sift through his memories, looking for evidence.
“I’m not lying,” he ground out. Talking with his mind was almost as difficult as speaking out loud, unhelped by his exhaustion, pain and fear as well as Rience pressing against his mental defences.
“So what happened?” he sneered. “Did your spark get snuffed out.”
“Sodden.”
Rience actually laughed at that. “Now, I’ve heard the saviour of Sodden wasn’t Vilgefortz of the brotherhood but this… traitor, Yennefer of Vengerberg. There’s certainly no mention of you.”
“Why would they?” he said weakly. “I’m not a real mage. Including me gives them no glory and I certainly wanted no part in it. Yet I paid the price for it, not them.” He didn’t think about how Yennefer had told him she’d also lost her magic, shielding that from Rience. It didn’t matter what he said really, as long as he kept the flames away from his hands. “I stood there, on top of that hill, and I burnt that army to the ground,” he spat, letting his anger and fear bubble up as it had back then, willing it to carry him through this.
“Where is that fire now then, hmm?” he said, getting too close for Jaskier’s comfort yet again.
“Like I said, I paid the price.” Rience narrowed his eyes at him then. “It cost me everything. My chaos, my voice, my soul. So don’t you dare lecture me on the dangers of fire magic because trust me, you have no idea.” He was breathing hard now, the mental strain of effectively shouting at Rience combined with maintaining the barrier to keep him out taking its toll.
Rience seemed a bit taken aback at the sudden fight Jaskier was putting up. He was looking at him now like he was something dangerous. He probably looked feral enough, the blood in his mouth staining his teeth, a wild, desperate look in his eyes.
“Well, look where that got you in the end,” Rience said eventually, cold and calm. He snapped his fingers again, the flame jumping back to life. “You’ve lost your power, no one knows your name, and you’re still here, with me.”
He brought the flame up to his hand again, closer and closer, the heat building until it was too much. Jaskier couldn’t help the strangled cry that escaped as his fingers burned, the pain enough to momentarily drown out the pain in his throat. It was endless, like it would consume his entire being in no time at all. He supposed it was fitting. Fire had already taken everything else from him, why not destroy his body too.
He was distantly aware of glass shattering somewhere behind him and the flame disappeared.
Yennefer and Jaskier crashed into the alleyway without grace. Both were breathing hard after the mad dash away from the tavern, no destination in mind. Jaskier all but collapsed, his back hitting the wall hard, hissing between his teeth as it aggravated his injuries. It was one of the few sounds he could make without consequences.
“Who the fuck was that?” Yennefer asked.
All Jaskier could do was shrug and shake his head, cradling his burnt fingers close to his chest. It hurt too much to move them to sign, the skin bright red and bleeding, though the blood might have come from somewhere else. He didn’t want to think about it.
“Let me see,” she said, holding out her hand. He hesitated before placing his hand in hers. He flinched when she lightly touched his tender skin, trying to pull his hand away. She held firm however, keeping him in place as she inspected the damage.
With just his left hand, he tried to spell out Geralt’s name. He caught Yennefer’s attention but it took him a couple of repeats for her to understand.
“Geralt? What about him?” she asked, still trying to tend to his fingers.
He wasn’t used to only having one hand for signing and with pain and exhaustion muddling his mind, it took more effort than it should have, but in the end he managed to sign “Looking for Geralt and child.”
“His child surprise. The mage was after the child?” she asked when he was done. He nodded. “Why?”
He rolled his eyes this time. Why couldn’t she ask easier questions. He doubted Yennefer knew Geralt’s child surprise was also the now lost Princess of Cintra but there was no time to explain that right now. The important thing was warning Geralt, and he said as much to her with as much urgency as he could muster.
“How? Neither of us have magic, I’m wanted by the Brotherhood and you look like you’re about to collapse. We’re not exactly going to get very far, and we don’t even know where he is.”
Jaskier didn’t get a chance to argue, though he knew she was right. They were rudely interrupted by a group of men who must have seen them as they cornered them from behind the sheets hanging out to dry. Despite his exhaustion, Jaskier placed himself in front of Yennefer. He was fully aware that she was still more than capable of taking care of herself even without her magic, but what would a little more pain be to him right now anyway. She wasted no time in proving him right when she kicked the leader of the group in the balls before making a break for it. Jaskier limped after her close behind, silently guiding her through the crowded streets.
When they came to a fork in the road, he pointed for her to go right. He stayed behind, waiting to be spotted before running left. Hopefully he could buy her some time. He didn’t stop running until their shouts faded away and he was sure he’d lost them, at which point he circled back in search of Yennefer.
He almost ran into the men again, having to duck behind a corner to avoid being spotted. Carefully he stuck his head around the corner, watching as the men argued with the guard outside. It sounded like Yennefer had been cornered and captured within the brothel.
He waited until the men cleared off before sneaking up to the window. Inside he could see Yennefer, chained to a chair and looking utterly defeated. As hard as he tried, he couldn’t come up with a way to save her. Even on a good day he was no match for several armed guards. All he could do was stand there and watch as the guards came to take her away.
He could faintly make out her chanting something about a hut when suddenly she disappeared right before his eyes. The shock of it was enough for him to forget where he was, slamming his hand on the window in an attempt to get her attention. Unfortunately, it also alerted the guards standing just around the corner and he was swiftly arrested.
Notes:
Thank you for reading!
Chapter 5
Summary:
Jaskier finds himself once again sinking into a pit of despair and the last person on the Continent he expects to see shows up. Yennefer finally realises the truth of what happened to her magic.
Notes:
So I've been basing the language Jaskier has been using on BSL which has a two handed alphabet. This will become relevant. Also he gives talking another go which... doesn't exactly go too well for him. Hope you enjoy!
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
The nightmares had returned in full force, though they had never entirely gone away to begin with. The intensity and frequency of them had certainly lessened over time, leaving Jaskier with only a handful of sleepless nights in the past few weeks. Having been tortured by fire had effortlessly brought all the trauma back to the forefront of his mind, triggering a fresh onslaught of terror every time he closed his eyes for more than a few minutes.
They were mostly the same, walking among the burnt remains of the Nilfgaardian army, hearing their screams, begging him to spare them. Or it was him trapped in that dark labyrinth, choking to death on his words as he begged anyone to come and save him. Some of them were new however. He would be forced to watch a twisted version of himself, the same dead look in his eyes as he’d seen in Rience’s as he used his magic to harm innocents, children screaming and mothers begging as he unleashed his fire for his own amusement. Somehow those ones always left him the most shaken.
Falling asleep in itself was a task that required more effort than it was worth. The cell he’d been thrown in was cold and damp and the ground was hard stone with barely a scattering of straw. His ribs hurt fiercely whenever he lay down, stealing his breath, so he remained sitting upright, his back against the wall, leaving him aching. The burns on his hands throbbed in time with his heartbeat. His left wasn’t faring too badly, the skin still reddened and swollen but otherwise intact. The same could not be said of his right hand. Blisters covered his fingers and palm, some of which had burst. Dried blood and soot covered his skin which he knew was just begging to cause an infection, but he had no way of cleaning it. His fingers were swollen and stiff, making any attempt at signing with it impossible, not that the guards could understand him anyway. They just jeered and called him an invalid.
The silence on top of it all was unbearable. Unable to make much noise of his own, he had grown to rely on the background noise of his surroundings to fill that particular void in his mind. He needed some kind of sound just to keep him sane, even if it was just the other prisoners swearing down the hall. But there was rarely anything, just the dull thud of the occasional guard’s boots as they passed by.
The only thing he was really left with were his thoughts, something he’d tried his best to avoid since clawing his way out of the pit of despair he’d found himself in after getting back to Oxenfurt. Experience told him nothing good lay down that road. He tried to distract himself with thoughts of the elves and the network he’d worked so hard to build, if Akkar had realised yet that he was missing and whether he would be able to continue helping the elves by himself or if the whole thing might be disbanded instead.
After a while of fretting over the safety of the elves, his mind wandered to his own situation. Had the guards figured out that he was the Sandpiper yet? Surely Dijkstra must know of his whereabouts since he seemed to know just about everything else. It would be a convenient way to get rid of him after all. All he would need to do was suggest that Jaskier had been involved in aiding the elves. With things the way there were, no one would even question it, let alone ask for evidence.
Needless to say, the longer he was stuck in his head, the worse his mental state became. As the days passed with no news his anxiety only got worse. He couldn’t ask what was going to happen to him or how long he would be kept here. Sleeplessness made him jumpy and lethargic, his thoughts becoming slow and repetitive, falling down the darker corners of his mind.
His exhaustion got to the point where he began to worry he was losing his mind. When no one else was around, he swore he could hear a woman cackling just outside of his cell but when he looked there was no one there. He fought to stay awake to keep the nightmares at bay but he would inevitably nod off, only to wake a few minutes later, shaking and clawing at his throat.
The worst part perhaps was that he didn’t even think looking through that brothel window had been worth it. Yennefer had simply disappeared right before his eyes in a flash of embers after insisting she’d lost her magic. He had no idea what to make of what he’d seen. Either she had been a very convincing liar or someone else had somehow been responsible. He strongly suspected the latter was true. They may have been enemies in the past, but she had never been needlessly cruel. She wouldn’t lie about something as traumatising as losing her magic, would she? Not to him, not when there was no clear benefit.
The monotonous quiet of what Jaskier thought might have been the fifth day in the cell was only interrupted when Jaskier heard a muffled cry from just beyond his cell, followed by a rough grunt. Jaskier didn’t even bother looking up from where he was curled in on himself in the corner. Whatever it was had nothing to do with him and in all honestly he couldn’t bring himself to be interested even if the commotion meant a prisoner had escaped.
He pulled his knees closer to his chest, leaning his head against the wall and closing his eyes, wishing he could just get some uninterrupted sleep for an hour or two. It seemed he wasn’t going to get his wish as just a moment later he heard the door open on creaking hinges. He hadn’t thought it was time for their meals to be delivered just yet, but then time had started to slip from him a couple of days ago now.
Usually, the guard would just come in, take his old plate and leave the new one. Jaskier made a point of leaving it by the door so he was less likely to be bothered and the whole thing took less than a minute. This time was different, however. Beyond the sound of the door opening, there was nothing. His curiosity finally piqued, Jaskier lifter his head.
Of all the people on the contingent, Geralt was perhaps the last he had expected to see. For a handful of seconds, he thought he was just another exhaustion induced hallucination. They just stared at each other while Jaskier tried to comprehend what he was seeing and then maybe-Geralt spoke.
“Jaskier,” Geralt said, slightly out of breath. Jaskier belatedly realised he must have fought the guard and that had been the noise he’d heard. Looking past him out the door, he could see one of the guard’s boots sticking out from behind the corner. Not a hallucination then. He looked back up at Geralt then, more certain he really was here. He wore a slightly pained expression as he looked at Jaskier, still curled up in his corner. A storm of emotions was running through Jaskier’s head, a strange mix of anxiety and anger, but through it all was relief.
Jaskier summoned the willpower to stand, using the wall to support himself when his legs shook. He kept his distance for now since he had no idea why Geralt was here, apparently breaking him out of jail. If he was being honest with himself, he still wasn’t entirely sure this was real and not just another twisted nightmare conjured by his mind to give him false hope.
Geralt was looking at him strangely now, assessing him like he wasn’t quite sure what to make of him. “Jaskier?” he repeated, this time with concern, stepping further into the cell. Fuck it, Jaskier thought to himself. Even if this was just a nightmare, he still wanted whatever small comfort he could find. He crossed the distance between them and to his surprise, Geralt opened his arms and welcomed him into a hug.
He felt wonderfully solid and real in his arms, his hand warm and heavy where he patted Jaskier’s back. Jaskier tightened his hold, resisting the urge to bury his face in Geralt’s neck, though his apparently new armour would have made that difficult anyway. “I missed you too,” Geralt said when he stepped back.
Jaskier brought his hands up to sign before remembering Geralt didn’t know the language. Well, this was going to be difficult. With a silent sigh, he resigned himself to painful verbal conversation. “What..?” he tried, the single syllable immediately catching in his throat, causing him to cough.
“Are you alright?” Geralt asked, his brows drawing together in concern.
Jaskier sighed again, resisting the urge to roll his eyes. He couldn’t exactly answer that now could he. “Fine,” he rasped, barely above a whisper.
Geralt eyed him suspiciously before deciding it wasn’t worth the effort. “Come on, we need to go,” he said, already turning to leave.
“No,” he said as firmly as he could manage despite the pain as the word caught in his throat.
Geralt stopped in his tracks, already halfway out the door. “Jaskier, what’s wrong?” he asked again, sounding mildly exasperated this time.
Jaskier had to take a few breaths to steel himself before speaking again, trying to prepare for the pain. He was already shaking from the fear of it, but he needed Geralt to understand. “Left. Me,” he forced out with a great deal of effort. He hoped Geralt wouldn’t notice how badly he was shaking. He couldn’t even curl his hands into fits to still or hide them.
Hurt crossed Geralt’s face as he took a step closer to Jaskier, bringing his hand up to rest on his shoulder. “And I am sorry for that, believe me. But right now, I need your help.”
Jaskier would always be weak when it came to Geralt. He could feel the fight drain out of him, replaced with the emptiness that had been his companion for the past several days, and with it went his ability to speak entirely. He gave Geralt a short but reluctant nod which was apparently all the confirmation Geralt needed. He didn’t delay, already turning his back on Jaskier to walk back out of the cell, leaving Jaskier to trail after him, just as he always had.
Jaskier didn’t make any effort to communicate after they left Oxenfurt. It would be pointless anyway as Geralt didn’t know any sign and Jaskier would rather not keep tearing his throat open just to be ignored.
Geralt didn’t say a word either until they came across a small lake a little over an hour later. Jaskier tapped Geralt on the arm to get his attention before redirecting them down to the water. Geralt followed, grumbling something about not having time but Jaskier ignored him. The fact that he wasn’t physically restraining Jaskier meant he didn’t mind too much.
He’d had a hellish few days and he desperately wanted to quench the persistent burning in his hands and finally wash the dried blood and dirt from his skin. He felt like he may as well have joined Yennefer in the sewer all those days ago. He must have smelt bad enough for Geralt to have noticed since he didn’t complain when he handed him his clothes before carefully pulling his shirt over his head, trying to ignore his aching ribs.
The water was freezing but it felt like bliss on his poor burnt hand. He knelt in the water, not giving his body the chance to lock up before his muscles inevitably decided to seize from the shock of the cold. He plunged his shirt in the water under the pretence of trying to clean it when really he just needed his hands in the water. He knew realistically his shirt was ruined already from all the blood, but it was currently one of the only items of clothing he owned so he may as well at least try to keep it somewhat presentable.
“Did the guards do that to you?” Geralt asked, sounding mildly horrified. Jaskier looked up from the water to find Geralt’s gaze fixed on the dark bruises littering his now bare chest. He’d mostly forgotten about them in all honesty as the burn on his hand had been his main priority. He shook his head before turning back to his shirt, not wanting to have that conversation, at least not right now.
Geralt didn’t say anything for a moment and Jaskier hoped that would be the end of it. “What was Yennefer doing in Oxenfurt?” he asked eventually, his voice now carefully level. Jaskier felt his heart sink. Geralt hadn’t come back for him after all. Yennefer must have reached him somehow, but if she wasn’t here now, and Geralt was asking after her, something bad must have happened.
“Saving my life,” he signed automatically, pleased to find he could flex his hand a little without too much pain now the freezing water had started to numb his fingers. “Why, what happened?” he asked, shirt now sitting forgotten in the water.
“What?” Geralt said. Right, he’d forgotten again, he didn’t know sign. “Jaskier, what happened to your voice?”
Jaskier gave him an exasperated look since it was quite apparent he was unable to verbally tell him what the fuck had happened, even if he’d wanted to. Which he very much didn’t, so if he could please stop asking…
“Right…” Geralt muttered, having come to the same conclusion. “Can you spell it out?” Jaskier just raised an eyebrow at him. “I know some of the alphabet. Just try it.”
Great, he’d be reduced to single words. It was less than ideal but maybe they could make it work. He started by slowly spelling out the word “save” then pointed at himself.
“She was saving you,” he said hesitantly. “From whoever did that to you?” Geralt said, pointing again at the bruises and burns marring his skin. Jaskier nodded, feeling very self-conscious before going back to half-heartedly scrubbing at his shirt, wanting to cool his hands off again as the burning began to return. “What was her angle?”
“Wanted. Running.” he signed. “No magic.”
“What do you mean no magic?”
He shrugged, not really sure how Geralt expected him to spell that whole story out on his aching fingers.
“Tell me as much as you can about exactly what happened.”
Jaskier let out a sigh as he tried to come up with the best way to explain the whole sorry situation in as few words as possible in his head, using the time to quickly rub away the worst of the grime still clinging to his skin. “Caught. Chant mothers and huts. Gone,” he finished, miming a cloud of smoke.
“She disappeared?” he asked. Jaskier nodded. “But she’d lost her magic, so how…” he trailed off, not really speaking to Jaskier at this point. He had that look that meant he was trying to fit all the pieces of a puzzle together and Jaskier knew from experience it was best to leave him to it. Geralt paces a little, shifting from foot to foot on the narrow rocks while he thought it over.
While he was busy with that, Jaskier got out of the water before he started shivering, cautiously wringing the water from his shirt. As he lay the garment out on a nearby rock to dry, Geralt turned back to him.
“Yen’s chant, was it something like “turn your back to the forest, hut, hut. Turn your front to me, hut, hut.”?”
Jaskier nodded again at the familiar words as Geralt handed the rest of his clothes back to him.
“She’s in league with the Deathless Mother,” he said gravely.
Jaskier gave him a questioning look as he shrugged on his coat. He had never heard of the Deathless Mother before, but she sounded like bad news.
“Voleth Meir. She’s a demon, older than the conjunction. The first witchers were hired to imprison her. They entombed her in her hut, but someone must have let her out.”
“Why?” he spelt out this time.
“If Yennefer really has lost her magic, she may have promised to give it back in exchange for Ciri.”
“Ciri?” he signed. He knew full well who Ciri was, he just wasn’t sure why a demon would want her.
Geralt thankfully understood what he was asking. “She has her mother’s powers. Possibly even stronger.” Jaskier’s stomach dropped. He remembered all too well the raw power Pavetta had demonstrated at her betrothal feast. If Ciri’s power was stronger, she could become a powerful weapon in the clutches of a demon.
Geralt was looking at him strangely again now that the whole Yennefer mystery was apparently solved. “What?” Jaskier asked when he showed no sign of moving on.
“What happened to you? And don’t say you’re fine. You’re covered in bruises, you’re talking in signs, and I can see the burns on your hand,” he said, emphasising his point by taking Jaskier’s wrist in his hand, holding it palm up so he could inspect the reddened skin. His grip was light enough that Jaskier could have easily pulled away if he’d wanted to. Once the brief flash panic at having his arm restrained subsided, he felt no need to pull away. He trusted Geralt to be careful.
Jaskier sighed through his nose, more like Geralt than himself. What had remained of the blood crusted on his skin was mostly washed away now, but that only served to make the dark bruises littering his torso stand out more. It was all superficial and would heal without issue in anther few days, but the burn on his hand was still raw and already beginning to hurt like hell without the cold water to calm it. “Fire mage.” he spelt out with his left hand.
“A fire mage?” Geralt’s eyes widened ever so slightly. “The Fire-fucker. He came for you?”
Jaskier nodded with dawning horror. He had found Geralt after all, presumably while he’d still been with Yennefer if he knew the same moniker. “Didn’t tell. Promise,” he said, slightly frantically.
“It’s fine,” he said, trying to calm Jaskier. “I’d rather you spared yourself than protect me, Jaskier.” His hand moved from Jaskier’s to rest on his shoulder. “What did he do to your voice?”
Jaskier shook his head. “Before,” he signed.
Geralt looked like he was going to ask exactly what happened then, but Jaskier was saved from that fate by a dull thud from behind. Turning around, he saw an axe embedded in the log where he’d laid his shirt out.
He let out a despondent sigh. He was really just done with all this shit at this point. It looked like he had no choice but to wear it with a great big hole sliced through the middle. Geralt moved past him to pull the axe out for him, sparing him that particular trial. He wrung it out again, able to get a much better grip on it than Jaskier had before he handed it over. From above, they could hear familiar laughter through the trees.
Yarpen wasn’t exactly what Jaskier would describe as a kind man, but he was charitable enough to give Geralt one of their horses in exchange for the promise of adventure. He hadn’t plucked up the courage yet to ask what had happened to Roach, but he could only assume whatever it was had been recent. He wished he could have said goodbye to her. She may have been temperamental, but she’d always been reliable and eventually she’d warmed up to him.
He quickly decided he would rather walk beside Geralt than tolerate the extremely awkward ride on the cart with the dwarves, despite not really having the energy to do so. They walked in silence yet again, and slowly he could feel the gaping emptiness within himself opening up again like it had in the cell. It had never really gone away, never getting any more bearable, only pushed towards the back of his mind as he distracted himself trying to figure out what Geralt needed him for. Now that that had been worked out and his purpose fulfilled, he was suck in his own head with the darkness and nothing to distract himself with but keep putting one foot in front of the other. A monotonous task even at the best of times.
Jaskier didn’t know how long they’d been walking for when Geralt pulled new Roach to a stop and dismounted with an order to stay put. He walked past him, heading to the cart carrying the dwarves. Jaskier just stood by, kicking absently at the rocks littering the path as he waited.
“Why are we stopping?” he heard Yarpen call from behind, impatient as ever.
He couldn’t hear Geralt’s reply but watched as the lady dwarf began to rummage through a bag, searching for whatever Geralt was after. He didn’t see what she handed him, but he nodded his head in thanks before coming back over to him and new Roach. He took Roach’s reins, leading her on instead of getting back in the saddle. Jaskier kept a few paces behind, still not entirely sure where he stood with Geralt.
“Jaskier, come here,” Geralt said, his tone gentler than he’d ever heard before. Jaskier sped up a little so that he was now walking beside Geralt. “Here,” he said, handing him whatever it was he’d asked for. Jaskier finally looked up from the ground then to find Geralt holding out a few crumpled sheets of parchment and a stick of charcoal. “Go on,” he said, encouraging Jaskier to take it when he just kept staring at it.
Jaskier did as he was told, carefully taking the pages and the charcoal as though he was afraid he might drop them. “You don’t have to talk if you don’t want to, but I’d like you to have the option. I’m sorry I don’t know more sign,” he said.
All he could do was nod and hope Geralt understood just how grateful he was. He didn’t blame Geralt for not knowing more. Even he’d only just about known how to spell things out before he’d actually relied on sign to communicate.
They walked on for a while before Jaskier finally began to write something down. In all the years since Geralt had claimed the law of surprise, he’d only known him to avoid his destiny at all costs. And yet now they were practically racing to Cintra to save her from Yennefer and the Deathless Mother. He just needed to know if this was what Geralt really wanted, if he was happy now that he had the princess in his life. If this was all worth it.
Once the question was written out, he passed the page to Geralt. It took him a moment to read it before he passed it back. “I thought ignoring Ciri’s existence would make everything better. I was wrong. She means everything to me, and I will protect her with my life if I must.”
Jaskier couldn’t deny he was pleased to hear that. He knew how much stress just knowing Ciri was out there, bound to him by destiny had caused him. It was good that he had finally been able to accept it and, as it turned out, fatherhood seemed to suit him well.
Jaskier had another question then. How did Yennefer fit into all this now that she had taken Ciri from him? Did their love for each other still exist or had that been irrevocably been destroyed with this betrayal? Again, Jaskier passed the page back to Geralt once he was happy with the wording.
“If she’s hurt Ciri, I may just have to kill her,” he said coldly. There was no doubt in Jaskier’s mind that he was serious, and that frightened him. Yennefer had already lost everything. He understood her desperation to get her magic back all too well, the loss of her magic having given her a single minded dedication to her goal. He would very nearly do the same to get his voice back if it wasn’t for the all-consuming apathy he’d been left with instead. Still, he couldn’t imagine actually bringing himself to harm a child. He simply wasn’t capable of such an act.
“What if she’s changed?” he wrote. Geralt didn’t say anything straight away, so Jaskier took the page back and added to it. “People do stupid things when they’re trapped in a corner. And they say stupid things. But that’s what friends do. They come back.” He almost didn’t hand it to Geralt, very nearly scribbled over it. But it needed to be said. He couldn’t keep following Geralt if he didn’t know for certain he was sorry for what he said back on the mountain. That he wasn’t just here because Geralt had needed information.
“This is different,” Geralt said gruffly, crushing Jaskier’s last glimmer of hope. They walked on, Jaskier not bothering to take the parchment back from him.
“I am sorry, Jaskier,” Geralt said eventually, bringing Roach to a stop again so he could face Jaskier properly. “I’m sorry for everything I said on that mountain, and for how I treated you before. I know I wasn’t fair to you.”
It was suddenly too much, all of Geralt’s attention focussed on him after months of going relatively unnoticed by anyone. He almost wished Geralt would turn around and keep walking, but he didn’t. “It’s alright,” he signed, wanting to diffuse some of the tension.
“It isn’t though. I promise to do better. If you’ll give me the chance to prove to you I’m a worthy travel companion, that is.”
Even if he could speak, Jaskier though he would have been rendered speechless anyway. He had assumed Geralt had forgotten about that particular jab what with the much bigger messes that occurred on that mountain. All he could do was nod, a thin but hopeful smile pulling at the corner of his mouth. The all-consuming void within him seemed to shrink ever so slightly, a small bit of warmth returning to him.
Their arrival at Cintra was chaotic to say the least. Yennefer and Ciri were already in the midst of a fight with some Nilfgaardian soldiers from the city, Yennefer doing her best to fend them off with a big stick while they grabbed Ciri, pinning her to the ground. Geralt went charging in, effortlessly cutting them down, the dwarves following close behind, weapons raised and making enough noise for a small army. Jaskier ran into the fray, completely unarmed and unprepared. His only goal was to get both Yennefer and Ciri to safety, though he knew Yennefer was far from helpless even without her magic.
In the end, the fight lasted no more than a couple of minutes, the chaos replaced by a dangerous calm. Geralt was wound up, his sword pressed against Yennefer’s neck, ready to spill her blood at the slightest provocation. Jaskier could only watch helplessly from the side as Yennefer tried to explain why she had done it. Geralt stepped closer and for a horrible moment he thought he might actually kill her right then. Instead, he ordered Jaskier to take Ciri to Kaer Morhen. He was still very much a threat to Yennefer and from the stiff way she stood, she knew it.
Ciri brushed past him, paying him no mind as she headed over to what Jaskier assumed was her horse. With a final look at Geralt and Yennefer, Jaskier turned to follow after her, this time joining the dwarves in their cart. Ciri led the way, which was just as well as Jaskier truly didn’t know where they were supposed to be going. It was a long journey and with nothing to occupy himself with yet again, the yawning emptiness threatened to drown him, numbing him to the world around him.
They stopped for the night just as the sun was starting to set. The dwarves clearly had their own routine of doing things so Jaskier didn’t bother them, making sure to keep out of their way. He sat at the edge of their camp, as far away from the fire as he could reasonably manage without freezing to death.
It was only after they had all eaten that anyone tried to talk to him. “Who exactly are you?” Ciri asked bluntly, startling him with her sudden appearance. She stood in front of him, looking down at where he sat. She visibly shivered now that she had strayed from the fire but she stayed where she was, curiosity winning out over warmth.
He held up a finger to her, asking her to wait while he rummaged through his pockets to find the parchment and charcoal Geralt had given him before writing the word “Geralt’s friend,” for her to see.
“Geralt seems to have a lot of friends,” she said dryly as she sat down on the ground beside him, keeping some distance between them. “Unfortunately, most of them end up almost getting me killed.” He gave a voiceless sigh at that. She didn’t deserve to be hurt like that; let alone by people she should be able to trust.
“He doesn’t talk about anyone, you know. Most of the people I’ve met while I’ve been with him have been complete strangers.” Jaskier nodded along. He knew that feeling well, though it had occurred less the longer he’d known Geralt.
She turned to him then, eyeing him with a small amount of suspicion. He couldn’t really blame her after everything she’d been through. “You don’t seem to talk much either.”
“Lost my voice I’m afraid,” he wrote before turning the page so she could see.
“Did something happen?”
“Several things happened. Only one Geralt’s fault though,” he wrote, adding a wink when she looked at him again to let her know he was at least somewhat joking.
“Was he being an ass?”
That made Jaskier laugh, the sound foreign to his own ears after so long. It was short and rough, cut off when he choked on the pain, but it almost seemed worth it.
“Do you know Yennefer as well?”
He nodded. “She was desperate. I’m sorry you two met like that.”
“Desperate for what?”
“She’s lost her magic. The demon she was taking you to likely claimed she could get it back in exchange for you.”
“She didn’t go through with it though.” Jaskier raised an eyebrow at her. “When we got to Cintra, she told me the truth and warned me to get away as fast as I could. But then Nilfgaard came.”
“She’s not a bad person at her core. Desperate and power hungry perhaps, but not bad.”
Ciri didn’t say anything for a while, just stared into the fire at the centre of camp. “Do you think Geralt is going to kill her?” she asked, her voice small.
Jaskier shook his head again. “You’re safe now so there’s no need. He still loves her I think.”
“If she’d gone through with it though?”
Jaskier averted his gaze. There was no doubt in his mind that if Ciri had been harmed in any way, Geralt wouldn’t have even hesitated to cut her throat open. Ciri seemed to understand without him needing to write it down, turning to look back at the fire. “I’m glad she didn’t.”
Once they finally made it to Kaer Morhen, they were met at the gates with suspicion. Or at least Jaskier was. He and Ciri had left the dwarves at the base of the trail as they had to return to the roads further south. Ciri had withdrawn from him the closer to the keep they had gotten and had headed straight inside without a word. While the witchers were relieved to see her, they clearly didn’t trust Jaskier despite the fact that he had brought her back safely. It didn’t help that none of them understood sign, even when he tried to spell his name out for them.
“Bard,” he forced out, hand over his heart. “Geralt…” he broke off, having to cough as the words choked him.
“Geralt’s bard?” the ginger one said. “What about him?”
“You dense fucker,” the bald one said, turning on his brother. “He’s the bard. Jaskier, right?” he asked Jaskier then. He would have thanked the gods if he could that Geralt must have at least mentioned him. Jaskier nodded instead, only a little frantic. He really needed them to let him in. The dwarves were long gone and there was little hope for him to get off this mountain alive by himself.
“Doesn’t look like a bard to me,” the ginger one grumbled, crossing his arms. For a horrible moment he thought he’d be turned away but the other one just told him to shut up and told Jaskier to follow them inside. He was led into the hall and introduced to the others. They all met him with suspicion, but once the bald one, Coen he learnt his name was, explained he had brought Ciri back safely, they seemed to warm to him a little.
The oldest witcher, Vesemir he assumed, came over to see what the fuss was about from the far side of the hall. He looked Jaskier up and down before noticing the redness of his hand and offered to take a look at it for him. He was rough in his treatment, but Jaskier couldn’t complain when it was the first time the injuries had been tended to.
“From what Geralt told me, I expected you to talk a lot more,” he said as he wrapped a bandage around his palm after covering it in numbing salve.
All he could do was shrug and spell out “can’t” as he’d run out of parchment the day before, despite his best efforts to conserve it.
“Can’t? Or won’t,” Vesemir asked, surprising Jaskier with his understanding.
Jaskier shook his head sadly. “Sorry.”
Vesemir only grunted but years of experience with Geralt told him it was sympathetic. “Well there’s warm food in the hall and you’re welcome to any of the empty rooms. Consider it payment for bringing Ciri back home safe. And for keeping Geralt company all these years.” With that, he packed away the medical supplies and left, leaving Jaskier alone once more.
With Geralt’s sword still pressed against her neck, Yennefer recited the incantation to summon the Deathless Mother. Just like before, as she spoke the last word the world melted away. The sky changed from day to night, the open grassland giving way to a forest of tall trees. Trees she hadn’t seen the last time she’d done this.
As one, she and Geralt looked over to where the hut should have been. It now stood on giant legs, tilted towards the sky, a hole burnt in the roof through which embers drifted. “She’s gone,” Geralt said, finally lowering his sword from her throat.
“It’s always worked,” she said. She didn’t understand. Every time she’d uttered the incantation she had found herself inside the hut, not outside, Voleth Meir waiting to taunt her.
“The first witchers imprisoned her in this hut for eternity,” he said as though she hadn’t spoken. “She shouldn’t be able to escape. Unless…”
“What?”
“Unless she’s had her fill of pain and desperation,” he said, tearing his eyes away from the burnt, hollow hut. “It would have given her new life.”
“To do what?” she asked. He only shook his head, turning again to stare at the hut. It seemed like a useless thing to do since the Deathless Mother was already long gone, the hut itself perfectly motionless. Eventually Geralt seemed to come to the same conclusion.
“We should go,” he said, turning around to head deeper into the forest.
“How? She always kicked me out when she was done. What even is this place?” she asked, following close behind.
“She doesn’t exist in the physical world. This place is separate from our reality. If we keep walking, we’ll reach the end of it and re-enter the real world,” he said, not pausing for her to catch up.
“What is she, the Deathless Mother?” she asked. Geralt seemed to have much more knowledge on her than Yennefer did.
“She’s a demon, trapped here during the conjunction,” he said. “She feeds on the suffering of others to draw strength. It’s how she’s managed to escape.”
“Why now? There have been countless wars since the conjunction. People have been suffering for centuries.”
“The shattered monolith you were taking Ciri to, it was broken when Cintra fell. I think it gave her access to our reality when it broke, like a door. She just needed the power to unlock it.”
“Ciri told me she was the one who broke it,” she said. Geralt hummed, neither confirming nor denying it. “How?”
“Her powers are linked to the monoliths somehow. She can draw monsters from other spheres through them.”
“She can what?” she said, grabbing his arm. He stopped, glaring down at her hand. She removed it quickly, as though she’d been burnt.
“She hasn’t been able to control it yet,” he said. “She’s only done it by accident so far.”
He continued walking, leaving Yennefer to catch up again. “Alright so, Ciri gave her access to our world, but how did she escape?”
“Like I said, she feeds on suffering. She manipulates others into making deals with her, tricking them into giving her what she wants,” he growled.
“I tried to resist,” she said, knowing it wouldn’t make a difference to him. She had still betrayed his trust and put his daughter in danger. “But the others…”
“What others?”
“After Sodden, I was with some other mages. We all had nightmares about a robed figure. Later we found a shrine to the Deathless Mother which is when we saw her. Francesca, the elven leader and Fringilla, the Nilfgaardian mage. They both made deals with her straight away.”
“And you didn’t?” he asked, clearly sceptical.
“No. Not until after I was captured in Oxenfurt about to be taken to my execution,” she said, unable to keep the trembling from her voice.
“Hmm. The others, what did they want?” he asked.
“Francesca just wanted her baby to survive. I’m not sure about Fringilla. Power, I think. To please the White Flame,” she said, shaking her head as she tried to remember.
“Francesca’s child is dead,” he said.
“What?”
“She was assassinated a few days ago,” he said. “The grief of all those elves after that glimmer of hope. That would have given Voleth Meir enough power to escape.”
“No… but she’d promised the baby would live.”
Geralt shook his head. “Voleth Meir can only alter the timeline of events yet to pass. She cannot stop something inevitable from happening. That baby would likely have died in the womb. She just postponed the grief until it would have the maximum impact. Ripping away the hopes of an entire race of people after so much struggle instead of the grief of just a few.”
“That’s… barbaric.”
“It’s how she works,” he said grimly. They continued walking in silence for several minutes. Slowly the sky was lightening from its perpetual night the further they moved from the hut. The thin feeling of reality was slowly fading too, like dirt being washed from a window to let in the light.
“I know she promised you would get your magic back,” Geralt said after a while. “What did she want with Ciri?”
“She didn’t say. Only that I was to deliver her to the shattered monolith,” she said honestly.
Geralt only hummed again, giving no indication of whether he believed her or not. “Your magic would have come back on its own if not for her.”
“What do you mean?” she asked, her full attention on him now.
“Like I said, she can only alter when things happen, not whether they do at all. I don’t know what happened to you to cause you to lose your chaos, but if she promised to give it back to you, then you would regain it eventually on your own.”
Yennefer stopped dead in her tracks as icy dread ran through her veins. “She’s why we– I lost my magic?” she said, quickly covering her mistake.
“We?” Geralt said, focussing on entirely the wrong part of the question.
“It doesn’t matter,” she said hurriedly with a shake of her head, pushing past him to walk further into the forest towards the lightening sky. The sooner they got out of this wretched place the better.
“She didn’t cause you to lose your magic,” he said, falling into step beside her. “But I suspect you would have got it back it by now if not for her.”
“Fire magic destroys, if not the body then the soul. That’s what the brotherhood always told us.”
“The destruction at Sodden, it was fire magic?” he asked. She only nodded, refusing to elaborate. “Fire magic doesn’t destroy people unless they’re careless, just like any other type of magic.”
“It’s a forbidden source.”
“Only within the Brotherhood.”
“Fine, what do you know of fire magic then?” she asked, exasperated. It was a long shot, but Geralt clearly seemed to think he knew something she didn’t. She needed answers, needed to know if she and Jaskier really had damaged their souls because of that day, or if this was all because of a demon who feeds on pain digging her fingers into their deepest fears.
The more she thought about it, the more it made sense. She knew Jaskier had had a nightmare just the same as she and Fringilla had before they had come to Voleth’s hut. And yet he had not entered with her. Had the demon reached out to him another time perhaps, and if so, what deal had she offered him. His chaos wasn’t important enough to him, but his voice was.
She had seen him suffering just the same as her, the aching emptiness that had robbed her of her purpose in life mirrored in him. Had the root cause been the same? She had assumed all along the absence had been caused by their joint use of fire magic, but if Voleth Meir had been responsible for her pain, was she also responsible for Jaskier’s?
“Not a great deal more than you I’d expect,” Geralt said, interrupting her racing thoughts.
“Knowledge of fire magic is forbidden within the Brotherhood,” she pointed out.
He hummed at that, taking a moment to think before replying. “As far as I know, fire magic isn’t as dangerous as everyone claims it is,” he began. “Like any natural fire, you have to be careful, but if you have enough control it should be perfectly safe. As you know, witchers use igni. We can do that with minimal risk because signs use barely any chaos so there’s little chance of it getting out of control, and any burns we do get will be minor.”
“What about the people with a natural affinity for it?” she asked.
“Like Fire-fucker?” he said. Yen nodded, but that wasn’t who she was thinking of right now. “In the rare case that fire magic comes naturally to someone, they don’t have to be as careful since manipulating fire is practically second nature, like breathing. In other words, they’re much less likely to fuck up and can probably control it better through instinct when things do go wrong.”
“But what about the soul? Fire-fucker was insane. I was told that using fire as a source would do that.”
“That’s a myth,” Geralt said, sounding mildly amused which only served to infuriate Yennefer. She held her tongue however as Geralt had no idea that “myth” had caused both herself and Jaskier so much harm. “Fire magic can only harm the body at worst,” he continued, far too casually for the implications of his words. “He was insane for other reasons.”
Yennefer felt like the ground had dropped out from under her. She had believed Jaskier’s loss was due to the events at Sodden, that his own magic had carved away everything he held dear, had even reiterated it to him, and he had fully believed her. But they had been wrong, it had almost nothing to do with Sodden, or his magic. It was all Voleth Meir’s doing. She had stolen everything important to the both of them and drawn out their pain for her own greed. She needed to know what deal Jaskier had made with her, to warn him or help him, anything.
But Geralt had sent him away to Kaer Morhen. He would not be there when they emerged.
“Yennefer? What is it?” he asked as she picked up her pace.
She shook her head, trying to come up with some kind of excuse. She didn’t need to however as they passed through the threshold, her ears popping as reality subtly warped around her, both nearly imperceptible and nauseating. Geralt must have felt it too as they both stopped in their tracks as they waited to find their equilibrium. She could see the edge of the forest now, the walls of Cintra standing tall in the distance, lit by the setting sun.
“Come on,” he said, taking the lead once more. “I need to get to Ciri.”
She followed without further prompting. After all, she needed to get to Jaskier.
Notes:
I tried to have a go at explaining the whole Voleth Meir and losing magic thing. I hope it made sense :)
Chapter 6
Summary:
Jaskier finally learns the truth about the loss of his magic. Before he can fully take it all in, he's sent into battle by Yennefer and makes the choice to save Ciri over himself.
Notes:
This chapter took so much more work than the others but it's finally done! And (almost) on time too! I'm sure it's still the 13th somehwere ;)
As always, thank you so much for your lovely comments and I hope you enjoy!
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Jaskier had no idea Yennefer and Geralt had returned to the keep, so it was quite a surprise when he found himself being shaken awake by Yennefer of all people, her hands on his face as she hissed his name. No sooner than he’d opened his eyes, she was already telling him what to do. With his brain still mostly asleep, he didn’t quite comprehend what she was saying, something about Ciri being possessed? That sounded unlikely; he must have misheard.
Before he could ask what she was on about, she had already left the room, leaving him incredibly confused. It was tempting to just roll over and go back to sleep and he was about to do just that when she stuck her head back in with an order to follow. Realising she wouldn’t leave him alone until he complied, he threw back the furs and got to his feet, grabbing his coat on the way out to ward against the cold air.
He wasn’t entirely sure which way she had gone, having to chase after the sound of her footsteps and rely on his vague memories of the layout of the ancient keep. He ended up finding her in the room Vesemir had taken him to the day before. As well as serving as an infirmary, it appeared to double up as some kind of alchemy laboratory, two places only a witcher would think to combine. Yennefer was in the middle of looking through what looked like potion ingredients, her brows drawn together in concentration when he entered.
He knocked on the table at the centre of the room to get her attention. When she turned to him, he signed, “What’s going on?”
“The Deathless Mother, Voleth Meir has escaped and possessed Ciri,” she said. Ah, so he had heard that part correctly. “I don’t know what she wants from her, but she’s already killed half the witchers here.”
Jaskier’s stomach dropped. He didn’t really get much of a chance to get to know them, but the fact that this demon had been able to kill them off so easily was terrifying. Distantly he was aware he very easily could have been one of them, but it hardly felt important in this moment. “Is Ciri hurt?” he asked instead.
Yennefer shook her head. “I don’t know. She ran off before Geralt or I could do anything.” She continued to search the lab as she spoke, still not having found what she was after.
“What are you looking for?” he asked, wondering if perhaps he could help.
She shook her head before turning back to the shelves. “Voleth Meir is a parasite. If I can make a potion to extract her, we might be able to at least give Ciri a chance,” she explained.
He had to wait for her to look at him again, but his curiosity could wait in the face of Ciri being in danger. “You didn’t get your magic back then?” he asked when she returned to the table, though he thought he already knew the answer.
“No,” she said, pausing her frantic search to lean on the workbench, purposely not looking at him. “I almost went through with it, but in the end I told Ciri to run. It was a stupid thing to do and I’m truly sorry for it,” she said with a shake of her head. “I don’t think it would have worked anyway. She’d caused enough pain to escape her hut without my help.”
She looked up at him sharply then, as though something important had just occurred to her. “What did she offer you?” she asked, violet eyes burning into him.
“Me?” he asked. “What have I got to do with any of this?”
“She told me to bring her Ciri in exchange for getting my magic back. What did she offer you?”
“I don’t understand,” he signed back, utterly bewildered now.
“After Sodden we all had nightmares, right? Me, you and Fringilla. Even the elven leader Francesca did too. We all dreamed of a robed figure.” She paused waiting for him to respond in some way. He couldn’t though, dread clawing through him. He’d never told anyone of his nightmares, certainly not of the ones with the robed figures. How could she possibly know about them? And what did she mean the others had also had similar nightmares?
“Jaskier!” she snapped when he continued to just stare at her. He managed a small nod which was apparently enough of a response for Yennefer to continue. “That was the Deathless Mother. She was calling out to us because she knew we could be manipulated. She feeds off pain so offered us what we most desired. Francesca and Fringilla made a deal with her straight away and got what they wanted but it wasn’t without consequences.”
“Francesca’s child,” he said with trembling hands, remembering the news that the first fully elven baby born in years had been murdered in cold blood.
“Exactly. I tried to resist, I really did, but she finds your weakness and uses it to tear you open. I need to know what deal she made with you.”
“She didn’t.”
“What?”
“She never asked anything of me. The only time she spoke to me, she said I was insignificant, but that was just in a nightmare one time,” he said, trying to recall what exactly the black robed figure had said all those months ago.
“Oh,” Yennefer said barely above a whisper. “She didn’t need to make a deal with you because she’d already taken everything from you.”
“Yen, please, what do you mean?” he asked, desperate to know where she was going with this.
“Don’t you see, she’s the one who withheld our magic from us. And I’m willing to bet she took your voice as well. She didn’t need to make a deal with you because she’d already caused you as much pain as she could by stripping you of everything.”
Jaskier suddenly found himself unable to breathe, like all the air had been sucked out of the room. It reminded him horribly of his nightmares, unable to draw breath, and he began to panic. He distantly heard Yennefer call his name, but she sounded faded. He didn’t even realise she had come around the workbench to stand at his side until she touched his arm. He flinched, but she didn’t withdraw, instead guiding him to sit on the bench.
“Just breathe Jaskier, you’re alright,” she murmured, rubbing a hand on his arm. He tried to focus on it, letting her ground him. He forced himself to suck in a breath but didn’t quite manage to fill his lungs, the air expelled after just a second. He tried again, slightly more successfully this time.
“You with me?” she asked when he’d regained more control of himself. His hands felt numb and stiff, so it was easiest to just nod. “What’s wrong? Talk to me.”
It took him a second to calm himself to even attempt signing. “She took it?” he asked slowly with shaking hands.
“I’m sorry. I should have figured it out sooner. Geralt told me not long after we went to kill her.”
Fresh panic flooded his system at the mention of Geralt. Has she told him what Jaskier really was? Yennefer must have realised quickly what she’d just implied as she rushed to reassure him. “He still doesn’t know. I didn’t tell him about you, I swear. He was just explaining to me how she worked. She didn’t take our magic, that would have happened anyway after what we did, but it would have come back on its own eventually. She simply kept it from us to get us to do what she wanted.”
He could only let out a tremulous sigh and nod once more, letting the weight of it all sink in. The demon currently possessing Ciri was to apparently to blame for all his suffering. “Why me?” he asked when his hands stopped shaking quite so much. He didn’t understand why she had caused him so much misery when she seemingly needed nothing from him.
“She feeds on pain,” Yennefer said sadly. “I believe she was using you as a power source of sorts. She didn’t need to manipulate you into doing anything because she had already hurt you as much as she could. She stole everything from you to feed on your pain. I’m so sorry Jaskier.”
So that was it, the reason for all the torment and suffering of the past months. A demon had been using him as a power source. Fuel to feed the flames. Nothing more.
“If she’s to blame,” he started, trying to get his hands to cooperate through the residual panic, “then… my soul?”
“Nothing happened to it. You haven’t lost your soul; you just feel the way you do because of what she did to you. If we can defeat her I’m willing to bet all of this will go away. All the despair and emptiness you’ve been burdened with. And I’m certain you’ll get your voice back along with your music.”
Tears welled up in his eyes as he was overcome with fresh grief, his vision blurring before his hid his face in his bandaged hands. It was too much; to have hope after months of so much suffering was overwhelming. He knew he was being selfish. As they sat there talking, a literal demon was possessing poor Ciri and making her do gods know what against her will. He couldn’t pull himself together though, no matter how hard he tried, strangled sobs escaping from his lips despite his efforts to swallow them back. Strangely the pain was grounding, reminding him to keep control of himself lest he start coughing up blood for real.
Yennefer rubbed his back somewhat awkwardly as he cried. He knew she wasn’t great at dealing with other people’s emotions, but he was still glad for her company right now. She really was the only other person on the Continent who had any idea of what he’d been through.
After a few minutes, the tears slowed and he wiped at his face with the back of his hand, the bandages already damp. “Sorry,” he said, well aware of the time he was wasting.
“It’s alright.”
“Ciri…”
“We can go help her now. The others will still be searching the keep for her. Like I said, she ran off and no one knows where she went.”
He nodded and that was all Yennefer needed to get back to her feet, going back to searching for anything that might help. All Jaskier could do was sit there uselessly and contemplate what this new information meant for him. He was still struggling to fully comprehend it. A lifetime of believing he would lose everything if he gave in to using his magic had dome irreparable damage and made it so easy to believe he truly had sacrificed everything he was. But then he supposed it made sense if this demon fed on pain. It had always been his greatest fear and then he had been forced to live it, the nightmare turned reality.
“Ah, this could work,” he heard Yennefer mutter as she came back over to the workbench.
He just watched her as she placed a pale blue stone about the size of his fist on the table before him alongside some vials of various sizes and colours. Something was carved into the stone’s surface, possibly elder, though time had worn away the details. “It’s typically used to purify potions,” she explained, “but it can be used on anything. There’s enough ingredients here for me to be able to make a potion to help extract her from Ciri. This stone should work on Voleth Meir to weaken her and let the potion work.”
“What do I need to do?” he asked, summoning what courage he had. He could do this, not just for himself but for Ciri and Yennefer too. He could help to make this right.
“Take it to Geralt, he’ll know how to use it.”
With a deep breath he took hold of the stone, gave a determined nod to Yennefer, and headed out of the lab. He could do this. He could do his part to save Ciri and defeat this demon. He could get his life back.
Getting the stone to Geralt turned out to be a lot more difficult than anticipated. Jaskier had walked in to the great hall shortly before Ciri, or rather Voleth Meir, had started screaming. The tree at the far end of the hall splintered and fell, revealing a monolith of all things hidden within. There was barely a moment to take it in before she screamed again, shattering the rock and sending the shards flying.
Jaskier threw himself under the nearest table, narrowly avoiding being struck as he tried to cover his ears. He saw at least one of the witchers fall, his quen not quite fast enough to block the onslaught as she brought the shards racing back towards herself. Jaskier crawled further under the table and watched helplessly as the shards spiralled in the air behind Voleth before shimmering to life, forming a portal. The first thing he saw emerge from it was a great big scaly head, followed by the rest of the beast as it lumbered through. Jaskier didn’t recognise it despite his years of experience on the path, though it didn’t look too dissimilar from a basilisk.
There was no time to dwell on what it was as the creature shrieked, baring its razor-sharp fangs before charging into the hall. Everything after that was largely a blur. Jaskier was aware of a second beast appearing at some point, but he was mostly focussed on not getting crushed beneath the table as the creatures leapt about. He painstakingly slowly crawled his way closer to where Geralt was, pulling himself over debris and narrowly avoiding getting flattened.
He watched in horror as one by one the witchers fell, their limbs caught in massive jaws, their heads caved in. All Jaskier could do was curl further in on himself and pray to all the gods he could think of that he wouldn’t be next.
Geralt had remained at the furthest end of the hall by Voleth. Vesemir and another witcher had created a shield to keep them contained and stop Voleth from summoning any more monsters. It had seemed at first Geralt tried to talk to her, but they were fighting now, blades clashing, polished metal glinting in the light. Voleth moved with frightening speed and precision, aiming for the killing blow while Geralt was left on the defensive. He couldn’t fight back or else he’d risk hurting Ciri.
Jaskier couldn’t keep watching them, his attention drawn away by a rapidly approaching basilisk. He scrambled further back under the table, ignoring the pain in his empty hand as bits of rubble dug into it. He could worry about it later though, he just needed to survive for now. In the other he still held on tightly to the purifying stone since all this would be for nothing if he lost it now.
The basilisk collided with the table, jolting it back but blessedly not flipping it over. It lowered its massive head to look under the table, screeching at him when it saw him. Jaskier backed away as fast as he could, sheer terror driving him into motion as it tried to ram its head under the small space to get to him. Jaskier was under no illusion that he’d be able to escape if it caught him now, not after seeing so many highly trained witchers fall already.
Behind the great beast, Jaskier could see Vesemir gesture to the witcher standing opposite. Without a word, the witcher dropped the shield sign and joined the fight, heading straight for the basilisk currently hissing at Jaskier. The witcher landed a vicious blow to the creature’s leg, cutting deep into the muscle, causing it to shriek and flail, almost succeeding in tipping the table over in the process.
It pulled its head back, turning to face the new assailant. It lunged at the witcher, but he expertly dodged out of the way, leading it away from where Jaskier lay. Jaskier’s heart hammering in his chest but he didn’t have time to sit there and contemplate his very near death. People were still dying and unless the Deathless Mother was stopped, countless more would follow the same fate.
Once he’d gathered his wits, he resumed his approach towards Geralt, darting over to the next table when there was a gap in the fighting. He crawled along, awkward and slow as he did his best to avoid bits of the shattered table. He eventually ran out of cover however and could go no further without exposing himself which was sure to be a death sentence.
It wasn’t like he could shout to Geralt to draw his attention, and frantically waving at him was more likely to draw a basilisk to him than the witcher. With no way to get to Geralt there may as well have been a vast ocean between them. He looked at the stone, still clenched tight in his fist. He had to get it to Geralt. He had to save Ciri.
Summoning what little courage he had left, he emerged from under the table, just enough to give him room to throw the stone far enough so that it would be seen. It hit the ground behind and to the left of Geralt, drawing his attention away from Voleth for just a moment as it skittered across the floor. He looked at it then over to Jaskier, their eyes meeting for a moment.
Unfortunately, this also drew the attention of Voleth Meir. Her eery glowing eyes locked on to him, staring right through him to his core. The void that had been consuming him for months suddenly grew, burning and raw as it carved away at him from the inside. He couldn’t even make an involuntary cry of pain as he collapsed to the floor, all sound stolen from him as he writhed on the ground in blind agony.
The pain quickly spread up from his chest into his throat, just like the nightmares he now knew the demon was responsible for. He began to panic when he struggled to draw breath, his chest seizing as his muscles locked up. He wanted to scream but that only made the pain in his throat worse. He thought he could taste blood and fully expected to breathe it in when his lungs finally cooperated but all he got was a small gasp of air. This wasn’t a nightmare, he reminded himself, as much as it felt like one.
“You leave him out of this!” he distantly heard Geralt shout. “Ciri, please. You have to fight this!”
It was hard to even think, the pain all-consuming, leaving little room for anything else. Even the shrieks of the basilisks had faded to mere background noise as he focussed on just trying to breathe. Surely it wouldn’t end like this. He’d been through too much and survived it all, whether he’d wanted to or not.
He wasn’t sure how long it lasted, but as abruptly as it had started, the pain stopped. It left him shaking and gasping, the absence somehow just as awful as the agony itself, like a great, gaping hole had been carved out of him, the edges still very much a raw and bleeding wound. Jaskier couldn’t do much more than lie still and breathe as he regained his senses. There was a shout from across the room, the ringing of metal and stench of ichor filling the air. Oh, right, the basilisks.
Jaskier only just about managed to get his trembling limbs under control so that he could scramble backward until he hit the leg of the table. He didn’t have the energy to get back under the table itself, so he stayed huddled there, willing his shaking body back under his control. Across the hall, he could see Voleth was summoning another portal, a white basilisk larger than the others emerging, snarling as it surveyed the room. It shrieked before charging, barrelling straight through Geralt and Vesemir, sending the two witchers flying.
All Jaskier could do was watch in horror as the monsters tore through the remaining witchers. To his right, Vesemir had collided with the table Jaskier was hiding behind, clutching at his leg, blood already pooling on the floor under him. He turned to look out the door where the white basilisk had flung Geralt but there was no sign of him. Voleth hadn’t moved, watching the chaos unfold with a manic look of glee twisting her stolen face.
The old witcher got up, unsheathing a dagger from his belt before heading directly for her. Jaskier could only watch in disbelief. Surely he knew that if he harmed Voleth like this, he would also be hurting Ciri. The poor girl hadn’t asked for any of this. They just needed to wait for Yennefer to bring her potion. He wanted to call out to Vesemir, force himself to make any kind of noise as he had in the cell with Geralt, to make Vesemir rethink what he was about to do, but nothing came. Voleth’s most recent attack had stripped him of that ability completely. The thought alone made his throat feel painfully constricted and fear kept him from making an attempt at something as little as a hum.
Jaskier had to do something, he couldn’t just sit there and watch a girl be murdered. Without thinking, he summoned what little energy he had left and scrambled to his feet, charging at the witcher. He should have known he’d sense him coming a mile away. With barely a break in his stride, Vesemir grabbed Jaskier by his coat and threw him aside. He landed with a dull thud on his back as the air was forced out of his lungs.
Vesemir didn’t even spare him a second glance, still heading straight for Ciri. He heard Geralt shout from the far end of the hall but there was no way he would reach him in time, not with the basilisks still wreaking havoc.
Geralt shouted at his mentor, but Vesemir ignored him too. “Jaskier, do something!” Yennefer yelled, barely audible above the din of the battle. He hadn’t realised she had joined them, but she too was stuck by the main entrance with Geralt. There was no one else who could reach Vesemir in time. Fuck.
He rolled onto his side before pushing himself up on one knee. Vesemir had reached her now, grabbing her by the arm as he raised his dagger, preparing to plunge the blade directly into her heart. He couldn’t let this happen, not to Ciri. She had done nothing to deserve this. He would rather lose his soul for real than let anything bad happen to her if he could prevent it.
He didn’t think, just moved on instinct, allowing fear and pain and pure desperation to rush through him, filling the void in his chest. It burnt, searing hot but it didn’t matter. A flame ignited in his palm and with all his remaining strength, he threw it at Vesemir.
The fire hit its mark, burning the hand that held the dagger, causing the blade to clatter to the ground. Jaskier wasn’t sure what happened after that, the searing pain overwhelming him, causing his vision to white out. He was distantly aware of someone screaming and he thought it might be coming from himself. He could do nothing to stop it though as the fire finally consumed him.
Yennefer watched helplessly from the far side of the hall as a flame leapt forth from Jaskier’s hand, striking Vesemir, causing him to drop the dagger as his hand was engulfed. He’d somehow managed to access his magic, but it had come at a tremendous price. She could only watch in horror as he collapsed, screaming in agony loud enough to be heard over the ongoing fight, her blood running cold.
There was a break in the fight, one of the basilisks taken down with a blade between its eyes by another witcher, giving herself and Geralt a chance to cross the hall. Geralt ran for Vesemir, roughly dragging him away from Ciri while Yennefer went straight to Jaskier, falling to her knees beside him. He’d quickly stopped screaming, but only for lack of air, not pain.
He writhed and gasped, unable to get his muscles to coordinate well enough to do anything more than gasp. Tears streaked his face, falling from unfocussed eyes. She doubted he was aware of her presence, even when she grabbed at him, trying to see if there was some physical wound she could do something about. It was only when she touched him that she felt the heat rolling off him, his skin unnaturally hot beyond even the worst fever.
It was his chaos, she realised. Voleth Meir must have done something to him, some retribution for defying her. She had poisoned his magic against him and now it was burning him from the inside. There was nothing she could do to help. Even holding his hand was too much for her to bear, having to let go after only a few seconds.
“What has she done to him?” Geralt asked from behind, his voice strained.
“She’s— It’s magic. I can’t help him,” she said, shaking her head.
“He shouldn’t have tried to resist me,” Voleth Meir said. Yennefer turned to look at her to see a manic smile on her stolen face. “Silly mage.”
Geralt looked between Voleth and Yen then, his brows coming together in confusion. “Yen, what does she mean?”
Jaskier’s thrashing had died down in intensity, though it was hardly a good thing. He was losing the fight, his body starting to shut down as the fire tore through him unrestricted. He’d stopped making any noise whatsoever, the silence deafening now that the last basilisk had finally been defeated. He wouldn’t have much longer unless Voleth Meir was stopped once and for all.
“We need to end this,” she said with a determined shake of her head.
Geralt turned back to Ciri, taking her by the shoulders. “Ciri, if you can hear me, if you can hear us,” he said, voice cracking. “Come home.” Voleth flinched, turning her head away as Ciri tried to fight back. She couldn’t imagine how hard this all was for him, his child possessed by a demon that feeds on pain, his brothers killed, and now his best friend lying just a few feet away, slowly dying and helpless to save him.
Voleth recoiled, closing her eyes for a moment as she fought Ciri for control. Jaskier abruptly stopped moving, his limbs stilling as his chest heaved, his body failing to gain any kind of control. Yennefer reached for his hand, his skin still too hot to the touch. He couldn’t lose now, not after surviving everything else. “Come on Jaskier, just hold on,” she said, though there was very little chance he heard her.
Ciri gasped and for a moment Yennefer hoped she had regained control of her own body. “I’m not going anywhere,” Voleth said with more than just Ciri’s voice. “I’m staying right here, living in her, forever.”
“Her hut burned,” Geralt said after a moment, his eyes wide with the realisation. “She needs a vessel to exist within this sphere. Ciri can’t escape, unless…”
Yennefer took the potion bottle out from her pocket. It would be useless without a vessel for the demon, but with all her newfound power, all the pain she’d fed on, she would be strong enough to resist it anyway, even with the aid of the stone she had given Jaskier.
Yennefer stood, stepping up to Geralt’s side and threw the bottle to the ground, shattering it on impact. “Unless I right this wrong.” She picked up a sizeable shard, moving to stand between Geralt and Ciri. “My wounds wouldn’t heal—”
“Yen,” Geralt growled in warning, quickly realising what she was about to attempt.
“—because magic wasn’t what I was missing,” she continued. “I can be the vessel.”
“No.”
She pulled up her sleeves, just enough to expose her wrists. “For her.”
“Yen!”
She didn’t allow herself to second guess, slicing the glass over her wrist before doing the same to the other, reopening old wounds. She turned to face Voleth and began chanting, letting her desperation break through whatever barrier was holding her magic hostage as she felt her life drain away. She felt the sudden rush of chaos filling the emptiness she’d carried for so long. It was familiar and welcome, but she couldn’t enjoy it for long. As she kept chanting her chaos answered her call, and she slowly felt Voleth Meir’s presence fill her mind until all she could do was stand perfectly still, fighting within her own mind to stop the demon taking control.
She was only vaguely aware of others moving around her as Voleth pushed against her defences, forcing her way through bit by bit, spreading through her entire being. She hoped the others could figure this out quickly. She hated to think what might happen if Voleth took full control, the destruction she might unleash with her trained chaos.
Ciri began shouting in elder, repeating what Voleth had said earlier to summon the basilisks. She was opening a portal to another sphere. Within her, Voleth stopped fighting for control, instead pushing Yennefer towards the swirling portal. Yennefer couldn’t resist, all her focus on keeping Voleth contained. She could feel something on the other side calling to the demon and with another shove she went flying through the portal. Hands tried to grab at her but failed to hold her back and they all tumbled through together.
The landing was hard, the ground beneath her dry and rust red in colour. The sky was a similar shade, filled with dust and dotted with several suns. She scrambled to her feet, already preparing for a fight. Instead, she watched as the embers of Voleth Meir floated away from her, her presence leaving Yennefer entirely. She breathed a sigh of relief as she watched the demon disappear into the sky, mingling with the dust.
“She’s leaving,” Geralt said. As the three of them stood and watched, several horsemen appeared from behind a rocky outcrop, heading directly for them. Voleth’s embers came back down, gathering around the one horse without a rider and gradually forming the shape of a person. Yennefer and Geralt shared a fearful look as the riders kept coming closer, heading straight for them.
“Child of the elder blood!” the lead rider cried, its voice carrying unnaturally over the distance. “Starry-eyed daughter of chaos, join our hunt. Your place is among us. You are ours!” They were rapidly approaching now, the leader leaning down, reaching its arm out, ready to grab Ciri.
“Ciri!” Geralt shouted.
Ciri grabbed their hands, holding tight as she willed them back to the keep without so much as a word of elder. Yennefer could swear she felt the ghostly hand of the rider brush her but when she opened her eyes, she was standing back in the keep, her head spinning.
Geralt immediately took Ciri to the side, making sure the poor girl was alright. Yennefer turned away to give them some privacy. Her legs shook beneath her, but she willed herself to remain standing for just a moment longer. The witchers had all dispersed around the ruined hall, trying their best to tend to their wounds. Jaskier was still lying on the floor, the laboured rise and fall of his chest the only sign that he was still alive.
Yennefer stumbled over to him before falling to her knees at his side once more, her hands ghosting over his skin. He was still hot to the touch, though she couldn’t tell if the heat was coming from his skin or his newly regained chaos. With her own magic returned, she could feel his too. Unlike all the times she’d glimpsed it before where it had been tightly bound and constrained, now it was akin to a wildfire, raging freely within him.
Despite its intensity, she didn’t think it was causing any harm now that Voleth Meir’s influence had been removed. It was no longer actively burning him from the inside. This was merely a consequence of supressing it for decades, and now those bonds had been stripped away all at once. It was a shock to his system and was surely deeply unpleasant, but it wasn’t dangerous.
“Jaskier?” she said, shaking him slightly, trying to get him to wake. It took him a moment, but he cracked his eyes open with great effort, blearily blinking up at her. She sighed with relief, letting the last of the tension drain from her exhausted body. He was awake and he wasn’t seriously injured. He would be alright. “It’s over,” she said, her voice frailer than she’d like. “She’s gone.” He closed his eyes again and let out a shaky sigh, too exhausted to stay awake any longer.
There wasn’t really anything she could do for him here. He needed rest more than anything, but she couldn’t exactly move him by herself. There wasn’t much she could do in the short term to make him any more comfortable so regrettably she left him there while she forced herself back to her feet. There were still witchers bleeding out, injuries that would surely be fatal without her intervention.
The nearest was leaning heavily against one of the few remaining pillars, a hand clamped over his stomach, blood seeping between his fingers. Wordlessly, she moved his hand aside, holding her own over the wound. She spoke the healing words in elder, savouring the feeling of her chaos answering the call. She was pleased to see his flesh knitting itself back together under her guidance until the only trace there had ever been an injury at all was the blood staining his skin and the hole in his shirt. He sighed in relief, and she gave him a quick nod before moving on to the next.
Though she wanted to help as much as possible, she could feel that her control over her chaos was still fragile, so she limited herself to only life threatening injuries. She felt utterly drained when she was finally done, her head spinning worse than before. She couldn’t quite bring herself to mind too much. After all, it served as proof of what she had regained after months of stumbling through the dark. On unsteady legs, she made her way back over to where Jaskier still lay, sitting heavily on the floor beside him. As much as she wanted to lie down and sleep for a week, she couldn’t just leave him here.
He was still in the same position she’d left him in, not having woken in the time she was gone. She wasn’t surprised; Voleth’s torture had been intense and had come far too close to costing him his life. He looked unwell, his skin flushed and sweaty, the unnatural heat still rolling off him. She wished she could help somehow, but the only cure would be time.
“Is he alright?” Geralt asked as he came over, kneeling down beside them both. His hand went to Jaskier’s chest, his palm resting over his heart, like he needed the reassurance that he was alive.
“I think so,” she said tiredly. “He’s not dying if that’s what you’re worried about.”
“He’s far too warm,” he said, moving his hand up to Jaskier’s forehead to double check his temperature, gently brushing aside his hair. Yennefer stayed quiet, not sure what she could say without giving away the truth. “He shouldn’t have been in here,” he grumbled after a moment.
“If he hadn’t been here, Vesemir would have killed Ciri and the Deathless Mother would just have possessed someone else,” she pointed out. Geralt didn’t refute her, humming instead as he glanced over to where Vesemir was kneeling beside a body, pulling the medallion off it. The poor witcher was too mangled to identify even if she had known his name.
“I’m sorry,” she said tiredly, “for all of this.”
He shook his head. “You didn’t cause this,” he said, turning back to her. “I think I understand a little more now how Voleth Meir made you feel. I can see why you did what you did.”
“Am I forgiven?” she asked tentatively.
“No,” he said, though not unkindly. “Not yet at least.” Like a fool, she allowed a small spark of hope to flicker to life within her heart.
Neither said anything more for a while. Yennefer sat and watched as Geralt began carefully searching Jaskier for injuries. She knew he wouldn’t find any other than the burns and bruises he’d come here with. Satisfied he was still in one piece, Geralt turned his attention back to her. “Voleth Meir got to him too, didn’t she,” he said with a heavy sigh. “That’s why he wasn’t speaking. What did she do to him?”
Yennefer knew it wasn’t her place to tell this story. She had promised Jaskier years ago on the side of a different mountain that she wouldn’t tell Geralt about his magic, and she had no intention of breaking it now. “You’d have to ask him,” she said simply.
Geralt wasn’t convinced, narrowing his eyes at her. “You know what happened,” he said, though it fell short of an accusation.
“I do. But it’s not my place to say.”
Geralt didn’t push, instead bending down to pick Jaskier up. He looked like a ragdoll, limp and almost lifeless in Geralt’s arms save for the rise and fall of his chest. It made her heart clench uncomfortably and she found herself standing with Geralt. There was no point in her staying in the hall anyway. She couldn’t help with cleaning up the wreckage and she doubted the other witchers would want her handling their dead.
Geralt didn’t comment as she followed him, leading them down various twisting hallways. It took Yennefer a while to realise they were heading for the infirmary. That made sense she supposed. The room she had found Jaskier in was entirely unsuitable for living in what with the gaping hole in the wall letting in the snow. Though in his current condition, the cold might do him some good.
Once inside the infirmary, Geralt took Jaskier to one of the empty beds, laying him down carefully. There was only a couple of other witchers in here, Yen having healed the worst of their injuries already. “Help me get him out of this,” Geralt said to her as he gently began manoeuvring Jaskier out of his coat.
Yennefer helped slip Jaskier’s arm’s out of the sleeves while Geralt kept him upright, cradling him against his chest. Despite his temperature, they left him in his shirt and trousers, removing his boots once Geralt lay him back down. There was nothing else either of them could do now but wait. Geralt pulled a stool over to sit at his bedside, clearly unwilling to leave Jaskier alone. Part of Yennefer wanted to protest, to tell him he didn’t need to stay too, that she could watch him and that he should go to Ciri. But she was perhaps selfishly glad for his company.
“You should get some rest too,” he said.
“I’m fine.”
“You’re exhausted. You can sleep here,” he said, pointing to the empty beds lining the walls. “I’ll wake you if anything happens.”
She wanted to argue but what good would that do? He was right. She needed rest and she’d be no use to anyone if her magic was needed if she didn’t let herself regain some strength. Reluctantly she nodded and went over to the nearest bed. She didn’t remove her boots, nor did she grab a blanket, just lying down on the hard bed and closed her eyes. Despite the discomfort and the chill in the air, it didn’t take long for sleep to claim her.
Notes:
Really hoping that wasn't disjointed, I edited it over the last week in chunks so I've not read it all in one go. If there's anything glaringly obvious please do let me know. Or even if you just want to yell incomprehensibly or dump a bunch of emojis, all comments are welcome!
Chapter 7
Summary:
Discussions are had and healing begins.
Notes:
Wow! This chapter did not want to be written, sorry for the delay! Originally it just had the first and last scenes but along the way I decided more fluff and healing was needed so I hope you enjoy these snapshots of things finally getting better.
Thank you everyone who has stuck with this fic and left comments and kudos. It really helped me keep going and I'm so glad to see you enjoyed it enough to stick with it! 💕
Chapter Text
Jaskier was burning from the inside. The fire inside him that he’d always feared was finally consuming him, filling the emptiness that had plagued him since the battle at Sodden. It was terrifying, more so than when he realised he’d lost his voice. At least that hadn’t threatened his very existence.
He had to struggle through grogginess and pain to wakefulness. His skin was overheated and damp with sweat, his clothes sticking to him. A shiver wracked his body, not knowing how to deal with the unnatural heat coursing through him. He curled in on his side as another wave of burning washed over him, wrapping his arms around his middle as though that could possibly help.
His chaos had returned, that much was apparent now that he was more awake, but he had no control over it. The fire roared and spat, refusing to listen to his command to just stop. It was spilling out, messy and dangerous, no longer neatly locked away where he could forget it even existed.
“Jaskier?” a gruff voice said from somewhere close by. Jaskier cracked his eyes open, having to blink a few times to get his vision to focus enough to make out Geralt sitting on the edge of the bed, his eyes wide with worry. He lay a hand on Jaskier’s cheek, cool against his face.
“Is he awake?” another voice said. It sounded like Yennefer, but he couldn’t see her, just the blurry shape of Geralt. The light in the room was making his head hurt so he let his eyes slip closed again. Unfortunately, it didn’t seem like he would be able to slip back into the blissful nothing of sleep, the heat too intense for that.
“I think so,” Geralt said, shifting on the bed. A second hand touched his forehead, also blessedly cool. For the brief moment she touched him he could feel her magic. He’d always thought of it like an ocean; usually calm and always terrifyingly vast, ready to surge and overwhelm anything in its path. Now he could tell she was struggling against her own magic too, a like storm raging within her, massive waves threatening to drown her.
“Jaskier?” she asked, bringing him back to the present. He cracked an eye open to look at her, bright violet eyes filled with worry. “Do you think you can sit up?”
He didn’t really want to, the thought of moving sounding like too much effort. When he didn’t reply Yennefer seemed to take it as a yes regardless and had Geralt help him upright. Jaskier did try to help, not wanting to be a dead weight, but his body was so weak he didn’t end up making much difference. Yennefer helped arrange a few pillows behind him to make him more comfortable.
Sitting up wasn’t any more pleasant than lying down but at least it did mean his upper half was no longer covered by the thin blanket. “Here, drink,” Yennefer said, holding up a cup to his lips. He tried to hold it himself, but his hand was shaking too much so he allowed Yennefer to help. The water was blessedly cool, and he drank like he was dying of thirst, but all too soon Yennefer took the cup from him. “Go slowly. The last thing we need is you choking.”
She let him have some more and he tried not to gulp the water quite so quickly. Once he had drained the cup she set it aside on the table beside his bed. Now that he was a little more alert he realised he was in the infirmary. Both Geralt and Yennefer were sitting either side of his bed, and if he were feeling less like he was dying he might have found the sight amusing. Now it just felt wrong.
“How are you feeling?” Yennefer asked.
“Dying,” he signed with clumsy fingers. His arms weighed too much to lift so he kept his hands in his lap. Geralt’s expression morphed from concern to one of confusion.
“I thought he’d be able to speak now?” he said to Yennefer.
She patted Jaskier on the leg as she turned to face Geralt. “Voleth Meir no longer has a hold over us, but that doesn’t mean the damage she did is gone.”
It took Jaskier a few seconds to fully take in what was being said. First, Geralt must have somehow figured out he had something to do with the Deathless Mother, quickly followed by the realisation that she was finally gone for good. It made his head spin, and he must have done something to catch their attention as suddenly they were both at his side, hands reaching out to steady him.
“You alright?” Geralt asked as he held his shoulders and guided him to sit more upright once more. He must have started listing to one side and that was what had them so worried. Honestly he was so out of it he probably wouldn’t have noticed until he hit the floor. Jaskier just nodded gingerly, careful not to make his head any worse.
Geralt didn’t fully let him go, his hand resting on his arm as he sat back down on the bed. Both he and Yennefer were looking at him intently again and he really didn’t know what to do about it. Part of him wanted to tell them to go and leave him alone to his misery, but it was nice having people around who cared. Weirdly he felt like he was on the verge of tears, but he put it down to his brain cooking in his skull.
Geralt turned to Yennefer, finally breaking some of the tension. “Is there anything you can do for him? Use you magic to heal whatever’s wrong?”
Yennefer shook her head. “It’s not something that can be helped.”
“Why not? What’s actually wrong with him?” he snapped. “What the fuck did I see in the hall if that wasn’t the Deathless Mother’s doing?”
Jaskier reached out to him, only managing to get his hand on Geralt’s knee, hoping to calm him. It seemed to work as the fight visibly drained out of him as he turned back to Jaskier, anger and frustration quickly giving way to worry once more. Jaskier turned to Yennefer, somewhat reluctant to remove his hand from Geralt to talk to her. He’d clearly must have seen Jaskier using his magic in the fight, and now it would only be a matter of time before he found out anyway.
“You can tell him,” he said to her before dropping his hands back to his lap.
“Are you sure? You don’t have to,” she said. Jaskier just nodded.
Yennefer turned back to Geralt, taking a breath to steady herself. It was odd, seeing Yennefer of Vengerberg nervous about something that didn’t really have anything to do with her.
“What is it?” Geralt asked, an edge of urgency creeping into his voice.
“Jaskier has magic,” she stated simply.
Geralt’s brows drew together in confusion. “No he doesn’t.” He looked quickly to Jaskier then back at Yennefer, as though this was some kind of joke they were playing on him. It might have been funny if the topic wasn’t so serious.
“What would you know of chaos Geralt,” Yennefer said dryly. Geralt’s hand went to his medallion, opening his mouth to say something but Yennefer cut him off. “That would only work if he ever used his magic.”
“I don’t understand. Is this true?” he asked Jaskier. He nodded before spelling “true” out for him. “You have chaos. Why didn’t you ever tell me?”
Jaskier looked over to Yennefer for help. He might technically have regained the ability to speak, but fear was a powerful thing and prevented him from even trying. Besides, he was still exhausted and having Yennefer explain on his behalf put a degree of separation between himself and what was happening.
“He has fire magic. Like me, he was told by the Brotherhood it’s dangerous. He faced consequences merely for possessing it, so he hid it away.”
At this Geralt got up and began pacing. Yennefer took Jaskier’s hand and gave it a reassuring squeeze while his heart beat rapidly in his chest. He had no idea what was going on in Geralt’s head right now, how he was going to react when he processed what he’d just been told. This was exactly why he’d never told him the truth.
After an excruciatingly long couple of minutes had passed and Geralt still hadn’t settled, Yennefer called him back over. He paused, looking between Yennefer and Jaskier before making his mind up and marching back over, sitting back down but still restless.
“What are you thinking?” Yennefer asked carefully. If things turned south Jaskier trusted Yennefer to help him in whatever way she could. He wouldn’t have asked her to tell Geralt otherwise.
Geralt shook his head, needing a second to formulate in his head what he wanted to say. The wait was agonising for Jaskier, almost as bad as the fire still raging freely inside him.
“The fire, at Sodden. That was you two, wasn’t it,” he said haltingly, less a question and more seeking confirmation.
“It was. I found Jaskier and asked him to come with me in case we needed help keeping Nilfgaard back before King Foltest could bring his army.”
Geralt made a noise somewhere between a sigh and a choked sob. “I could have lost you both and I never would have known,” he said, pressing the heels of his hands to his eyes.
Jaskier lay his hand back on Geralt’s leg, hoping it brought him some comfort.
“We made it out, Geralt. We’ll be alright now,” Yennefer said, putting her own hand on Geralt’s back.
“I’m so sorry Jaskier,” Geralt said after composing himself, taking Jaskier by surprise. “I’m sorry if I ever made you feel like you couldn’t tell me.” He sounded heartbroken which only added to the surrealness of what was happening. “I’d never… I’d never hurt you because of what you are. Knowing you have magic of any kind doesn’t change that. I hope you know that.”
Jaskier could only nod as his vision blurred, tears already running down his face. Geralt leaned in to pull him into a hug and Jaskier went willingly, burying his face in the crook of Geralt’s shoulder. The angle was uncomfortable and Jaskier was all too aware of his sweat sticking to Geralt, but he couldn’t bring himself to care. It felt like a massive weight he hadn’t realised he’d been carrying had been lifted.
They must have stayed like that for a while as when Jaskier finally let Geralt go, Yennefer had left the room. Jaskier let out a heavy sigh, feeling utterly drained and a little lightheaded. Whether that was from his chaos running rampant or the overwhelming storm of emotions raging through him, he wasn’t quite sure. Geralt helped him lie back down, not bothering to pull the blanket back over him.
“We can talk more when you’re better. Just try to rest for now. I won’t be far.”
Though Jaskier was still in too much pain to sleep, he let his eyes fall closed, his thoughts drifting. He felt safe in the knowledge that Geralt still trusted him, didn’t hate him for what he could do.
It took two days for Jaskier’s chaos to finally heed his command and settle down. During that time either Yennefer or Geralt stayed by his side. Usually, it was Yennefer as Geralt’s primary duty still lay with Ciri, making sure the poor girl was doing alright in the wake of everything that had happened. Communicating with Geralt was still difficult, but he’d been given a new notebook to write in and he and Yennefer had managed to teach Geralt a handful of signs to make things easier.
As promised, when Jaskier was up and about again he, Geralt and Yennefer had a proper talk about his magic. He decided he wanted to write everything down for Geralt this time rather than having Yennefer speak for him. The hard part was over with now that his secret was out. This he could do himself. He told Geralt everything he had told Yennefer on the mountain. How he had been taken to Ban Ard, taught that his magic was evil and shameful, and eventually how he ended up having to run away and reinvent himself.
Yennefer had taken over then, filling Geralt in on how exactly they had lost their magic and become involved with the Deathless Mother. Yennefer’s side of the story was new to Jaskier, and likewise much of his own was new to her. He hadn’t realised quite how much guilt she felt over asking him to come to Sodden, but there was no point in dwelling on it now. Like he’d told her before, he had made his choice believing he knew the consequences. The outcome was outside of either of their control. That demon had manipulated both of them and gotten exactly what she wanted.
Geralt had taken the opportunity to tell them both as much as he knew about fire as a source of chaos since his knowledge wasn’t tainted or limited by the Brotherhood. He reassured Jaskier that possessing fire magic didn’t make him evil or bad and he wasn’t a danger to himself or others. That, perhaps inevitably, resulted in more tears and this time he didn’t have to swallow down the sound of his sobs.
In the days following, Yennefer had been trying to encourage him to start using his voice again, assuring him repeatedly that no harm would come to him. It would be easier to believe if he wasn’t still having nightmares. They were nowhere near as intense or vivid as they had been under Voleth Meir’s influence, but they had been burnt into his mind so thoroughly that he didn’t think they’d ever really stop.
He would be lying if he said he wasn’t already feeling significantly better with the demon no longer in his head. After months of blindly stumbling his way through the dark, he was finally in the light. He no longer felt so empty and disconnected from everything, though he could tell he was still damaged. He had never expected it to all go away overnight. He’d been through so much. It would take time, but he was determined to get there.
Yennefer had also told him in no uncertain terms that he should no longer seal away his magic. It was ever so tempting to ignore her warnings, but his control was still far too weak to do anything other than stop it from burning him again. That would only get better with time, but even now he wanted to start restraining it and locking it away to be forgotten once more. It took a lot of convincing from both Yennefer and Geralt to not, and in the end he was persuaded.
It was scary at first, just going about the keep knowing his fire was very much present, just below the surface, ready to respond to his call should he choose to do so. He assumed no one but Yennefer would even know it was there as he still refused to use it, and therefore wouldn’t activate the witchers’ medallions.
Jaskier was sitting in the hall one afternoon with a book he’d found in the old library when Ciri came in from a training session. He hadn’t had a chance to see her since the battle, what with being struck down by his own chaos and all. He’d asked a few times how she was and had been told she was doing well all things considered, but it was a relief to see her with his own eyes.
He offered a small smile which she returned as she crossed the hall before stopping and looking at him strangely. “No one told me you have magic too,” she said casually, catching him off-guard.
“Oh… am I not supposed to know?” she asked hesitantly. Jaskier waved his hand in dismissal, reaching for his notebook.
“It’s fine. Who told you?” he wrote, turning it for her to see.
“No one. I can sort of… sense it, I guess?”
Right, he should have remembered she had her own version of chaos. He just nodded and was going to turn back to his book when Ciri sat down across from him. “Why didn’t you mention before you have magic too?” she asked, folding her arms on the table.
“Not important. I don’t use it.”
“Why not?”
He’d rather not spill his backstory to a child, so he just shrugged. “Long story.”
“But you could use it, if you wanted to?”
“I don’t have any training.”
“Yen could teach you!” she said excitedly. “You could join my lessons.”
Jaskier actually laughed at that, rough and short, but it was a sound nonetheless, the first he’d made in a long time. Startling himself, he automatically raised a hand to his throat, fully expecting the choking pain he’d grown to expect.
It never came.
Ciri was looking at him strangely again from across the table, this time with concern instead of curiosity. “Are you… alright?”
He nodded, dropping his hand from his throat to write. “I’m fine. Curse wearing off.”
“You were cursed? Is that why you don’t speak? Was it Voleth Meir?” she asked in rapid succession. It was easiest to just wave his hand in a “sort of” gesture than try to answer each one individually. “Are you getting better now she’s gone?”
He gave her a small smile and wrote, “slowly”.
“I asked Geralt about you. He said you’re a bard.”
“I was.”
“Why not still? If you’re getting your voice back you can sing again right?”
She was right of course. As he gradually relearnt how to speak, he would eventually be able to sing again, or at least that was the hope. But it seemed like such a far off thing that he hadn’t really let himself think about it too much. It was certainly something to reach for, a clear goal in mind to stay motivated and push on when the days were hard.
“Maybe one day,” he wrote, refusing to entirely dismiss the idea.
“While you get your voice back, could you teach me to sign like you and Yennefer?”
“Yes, but why?”
“It seems useful. Besides being able to talk to you, it would be good to have a way to talk to people without having to make a sound.”
He couldn’t really argue with that logic, so they began her first lesson, Jaskier writing out the alphabet, pointing to each letter before making the sign for it. It took about an hour before she managed to memorise every sign, but Jaskier knew she was likely to forget again by the next day. It didn’t matter though; he could just teach her again until it stuck.
Somehow Jaskier let himself be convinced by Ciri to sit in on her magic lessons. He didn’t mind too much really. He just sat off to the side and watched, often with a book to read. Watching the two of them, he couldn’t help but remember his time at Ban Ard. Yennefer was a much gentler teacher than any of his instructors had been. If Ciri made a mistake, Yennefer would calmly explain what went wrong and how to correct it before getting her to do it again.
She wasn’t relentless and knew when Ciri had had enough, but she pushed the girl to do her best, even when she thought it hopeless. Jaskier had lived under the constant threat of expulsion and the occasional beating. He wondered if Yennefer had faced similar at Aretuza and was now determined to stay as far away from that regime as she could manage.
It was a joy to see Ciri doing so well. He’d heard she had been struggling with controlling her chaos since the fall of Cintra, so to see her finally able to focus it and direct it to carry out her will was amazing. Jaskier felt he knew some of what that must have been like. While his own chaos had been out of control, it had only ever been a problem for him, causing him pain as it raged freely within him. But Ciri’s chaos had acted outwards, harming others, sometimes taking their lives. The fear hanging over her that it might happen again at any moment must have been terrifying.
A little over a week of Jaskier sitting in on these lessons, Yennefer finally had Ciri attempt to use her chaos now that it was firmly under her control. Of course, she had decided to start her off by getting her to lift a stone. It was the first test at both Ban Ard and Aretuza, one Jaskier had failed miserably at.
“To lift the stone, you need the words “zaelil aep”. Remember to channel your chaos not through yourself, but through the world around you. For now, draw from this,” Yennefer said, handing Ciri an apple.
“How is this going to help?” Ciri asked flatly.
“The first thing I was taught in Aretuza was that there is a give and take with chaos. You must respect the balance of things or else you’ll end up hurt. Lifting the stone requires energy. If you were to use your hand, that energy would come from the strength of your body. While I’m sure you have enough chaos that this probably wouldn’t harm you, you still need to learn the basics of control and channelling. So, for now, I want you to draw the energy from the apple and use it to lift the stone.”
Ciri looked sceptically between the apple and the stone before closing her eyes in concentration, no doubt picturing the outcome as Yennefer had so often told her. Both he and Yennefer watched intently, waiting to see if the stone would move. She opened her eyes and spoke the words but nothing happened. She repeated it again and again, but the stone stubbornly refused to move.
“This is useless,” she said, setting the apple down with a little more force than strictly necessary.
“You just need to keep trying,” Yennefer said patiently.
“That’s easy for you to say. I bet you never struggled to do something so simple.”
“That’s where you’d be wrong.” Ciri gave her a confused look and Jaskier found himself equally curious. “This was the first thing Aretuza had the new initiates do and I failed miserably. I couldn’t do it for weeks. You may find it hard to believe, but I was a terrible student, and it was only because my rectoress saw something in me that I was allowed to stay.”
“But you’re the most powerful mage on the continent,” Ciri said.
“It took patience and practice. You have so much raw chaos but it’s useless and even dangerous unless you can control it. I have no doubt you will one day surpass me, but you are going to have to put in the work to get there.”
Ciri thought about it for a moment before turning to Jaskier. “What about you? Did you ever have to do this?”
Jaskier was momentarily caught off-guard as he usually went unnoticed in these lessons. “I had this task too,” he signed to Yennefer who translated for him, “but I never lifted the stone.”
“Why don’t you try now then?” Yennefer said when he was done. “No time like the present, and maybe it will help prevent a repeat of earlier,” she said.
“There’s really no need,” he said but Yennefer was having none of it, and now Ciri seemed keen for him to try too.
“You can’t do worse than me,” Ciri teased.
“Come on,” Yennefer said, bringing the stone and the apple over to where he was sitting. “You know the theory. Put it into practice. Show her how it’s done.”
Jaskier had the distinct feeling he wasn’t getting out of this unless he at least gave it a go. Reluctantly he picked up the apple and tried to ignore the fact that he was being closely watched. He wouldn’t be able to speak the words, but he held them in his mind like a command, focussing his chaos. He stared at the stone in front of him, willing it to rise.
He felt his chaos surge for a second, and it frightened him enough to break his concentration with a gasp. He shook his head, putting the apple back down. His fear must have been apparent as Yennefer didn’t push him, just taking back the items with a quiet reassurance. The rest of the lesson was spent with Ciri eventually making the stone wobble on the table before Yennefer decided she’d made enough progress.
Jaskier planned to follow her out, but Yennefer was on him before he could even stand. “You’re not going yet,” she said, her tone leaving no room for argument. She placed the stone and the apple back down on the table in front of him. The apple was now slightly wrinkled from the energy Ciri had sapped from it.
“You almost had it earlier, didn’t you.”
Jaskier knew there was no point in lying. “I got scared,” he signed, feeling a bit ashamed.
“Remember what Geralt said. Your fire can’t hurt you unless, for whatever reason, you want it to. It answers to you, not the other way around.”
“But after Voleth Meir—”
“I think we can both agree those were extenuating circumstances,” she cut him off. “If you practice using your magic then there shouldn’t be a repeat if gods forbid something similar happens again. Now, try again.”
“I’m not your student.”
“Maybe you should be,” she challenged. Again, he got the distinct feeling he wasn’t leaving the room until he did as he was told so he picked up the apple.
As before, he focussed on the words in his mind, picturing the stone rising from the table. He called on his chaos but lost his focus as it answered him, his mind flooding with images of it burning him. He let out a frustrated sigh, shrugging at Yennefer.
“You’ve almost got it,” she said, giving his shoulder a squeeze. He suspected it was just as much to stop him running off as to comfort him. “Again.”
He rolled his eyes but did as he was asked. This time, as he called on his chaos he felt Yennefer’s hand tighten on his shoulder. He used the sensation to ground him, letting him push through his fear and release the spell. The stone wobbled a bit before shakily rising up into the air. In his hand, the apple turned black, the skin cracking and peeling away to reveal bright embers at its core. The stone dropped to the table with a thunk when all that was left was a pile of ash in the palm of his hand.
“You did it,” Yennefer said. “You’ll have to show Ciri in her next lesson now, show her how it’s done.” Jaskier couldn’t quite believe he’d done it, staring for a moment at the pile of ash in his hand. “Don’t worry about making a mess, just dump it on the floor,” Yennefer said. “I don’t think this room’s been cleaned for at least a decade.”
He dumped the remains of the apple on the floor and tried to dust his hand off, only to smear the other in black too. “Can I go now?” he asked, wanting to go wash his hands.
“Yes. But you’ll be joining in Ciri’s lessons now so make sure you’re here again tomorrow.”
“Do I get a say?”
“No. Now go on, tell her what you did.”
Jaskier was still learning to use his voice again. It was slow going and he could tell both Yennefer and Geralt were frustrated with his lack of progress. They never said it, but they both brought it up often enough. He knew they meant well, but they didn’t understand. He had suffered for months under Voleth Meir’s curse, the slightest sound punished by pain and suffocation. He’d only managed to speak during that time out of a desperate need to be heard, and even then it had required great effort. Now that he knew he was safe in Kaer Morhen and he was able to make himself understood, either with sign or by writing it down, that desperation was entirely absent, making it difficult to summon the courage to test his limits.
Logically he knew no punishment would come now, but it was hard to get over such a strongly instilled fear in just a matter of weeks. They had seemed pleased when he’d started making small hums in the days following the battle, but he’d not gotten any further since then. Yennefer in particular pushed him to practice by himself. Perhaps she thought that with no one around to hear him, he might feel more confident, but in reality he stayed entirely silent when he was alone.
Without anyone to hear him, there wasn’t that need to perform, to pretend he was getting any better. He wasn’t. The mere thought of attempting more than a brief grumble or audible sigh sent his heart racing. And it wasn’t that he didn’t want to get better. More than anything, he wanted to be free of this ever present fear hanging over him. It was just so incredibly difficult.
The breaking point wasn’t anything big or even particularly memorable. They had all been gathered in the hall one evening for dinner, Jaskier as usual sitting on the end of the table. Yennefer would normally sit opposite so she could more easily interpret for him, but it seemed tonight she wouldn’t be joining them.
The witchers and Ciri talked among themselves which was perfectly fine as far as Jaskier was concerned. He had grown used to listening more than contributing anyway and it wasn’t like he could weigh in on how best to take down a griffin. It reminded him of a hunt he’d gone on with Geralt. He’d only been allowed to go because Geralt hadn’t realised it was a griffin yet and it had somehow managed to sneak up on them, despite its massive size. The fight itself had been a complete mess but somehow between the two of them the only injuries were a shallow scratch on Geralt’s arm and his pride.
Jaskier wanted to join in the conversation then, to poke a bit of fun at Geralt and maybe make Ciri laugh. He got Geralt’s attention and began trying to sign, but it was clear Geralt was struggling to follow what he was saying. “Erm… I think I only got a bit of that. Say it again slower.”
Jaskier felt like all eyes were on him now, though most of the witchers carried on heedless. He did as Geralt asked, repeating himself slower. It was pointless as Geralt looked just as confused as he had before. “I’m sorry Jaskier,” he said, shaking his head. “You could write it down?” he offered.
Jaskier just shook his head and waved his hands dismissively. It wasn’t important enough to bother. It just would have been nice to join in. Instead, he now felt more isolated. He finished his food quickly and bid the others goodnight before heading back to his room.
If he wanted to feel like he belonged here, he would just have to try harder, to push past his fear and confront it. He felt a bit ridiculous at first despite the fact that he was alone, starting small by just humming to himself. He tried to pretend he was Geralt since hums made up at least half of his communication and he was well versed in interpreting them.
It was hard at first to hold it for more than a second, but he pushed through it. Just like the magic lessons with Yennefer, this was simply something he needed to overcome. There would be no repercussions for this action. He would not be burnt by his own chaos; he would not choke on his own voice.
A couple of days of practice in his room built his confidence enough that he started doing it in front of the others. The first time he’d made the “uh-huh” noise with Geralt and Ciri had resulting in the pair of them grinning like fools, giving him a vital confidence boost. He tried his best to keep that going, but it was a conscious effort and he still missed his chance more often than not.
Progress was slower from there. Although he felt like his voice had grown stronger and more sure, words remained a distant goal. That wasn’t to say he hadn’t tried, but there was a lingering fear he still couldn’t shake. He still had the nightmares of choking after all. Even with the Deathless Mother gone, he didn’t think he’d ever be free of her nightmares, permanently embedded deep in his memory. Whenever he opened his mouth to speak, he was filled with a creeping dread and rendered speechless. He knew it was only fear from his own mind and not Voleth Meir tightening the noose around his neck, but logic rarely helped in these situations.
Instead, he tried humming more than short noises, picking short melodies from his songs. Even to his own ears, he sounded terrible, choppy and slightly out of tune. But again, as he practiced in his room, he gradually got better. It took a lot more effort this time around to convince himself this was alright, anxiety still choking him sometimes. But those instanced became fewer and further between.
It was one such evening that he was humming the chorus to toss a coin. As infuriatingly catchy as it was, it was also a relatively simple tune, making it ideal practice. He was doing quite well, all things considered. He was hitting the right notes and his voice no longer had that scratchy quality from disuse.
He repeated it a few times before switching to something a little softer, something he’d usually play towards the end of a night when people started heading home. It was a little more complicated but it was all good practice.
“Jaskier?” Ciri’s voice came from the door. He startled and choked, causing him to cough. He turned to see her standing sheepishly by the half open door he was sure he’d shut earlier. “Sorry,” she said with a wince.
“It’s fine,” he signed, beckoning her in. She stepped in, closing the door behind her before sitting next to him on the bed. “Did you need me for something?” he asked.
“Not really. I just… well I heard you from the hallway.” She trailed off awkwardly, but Jaskier suspected there was something else on her mind so he waited.
“I know you’ve said you were a bard but… I don’t know, I guess I never thought I’d get to hear you sing. It was nice,” she said with a shrug.
He gave her a smile and a contented hum, his chest feeling strangely tight as he was overcome with affection for her.
“Will you sing for me one day? When you’re better,” she asked, turning her bright, green eyes at him.
“Of course, Princess,” he signed. She wrapped her arms around his middle, hugging him tight.
Today was the day, Jaskier had decided. He had a lesson with Yennefer and Ciri in the morning before lunch and he would finally speak out loud to them. The practice in his room had helped immensely and he was now confident he could manage at least one or two syllables at a time. Enough for their names at least. He’d decided a few weeks ago that it would be today, long enough to give himself enough practice but short enough he could keep the goal in mind.
Anxiety fluttered in his stomach, his heart beating fast in his chest as he walked to the lab. It was silly, being nervous about talking to two people he loved so dearly, but it was a big hurdle for him to get over, if he could manage. Ciri of course already knew he was practicing by himself, and she had almost certainly told both Geralt and Yennefer about it, so it wouldn’t be too much of a surprise for them. All he needed to do was… well, actually go through with it.
At the door to the lab he hesitated. He could hear Ciri and Yennefer talking inside and suddenly he was having second thoughts. Maybe he didn’t have to do it today if he wasn’t sure. But then when would he? Tomorrow? Next week? A year?
“Jaskier,” Yennefer called from inside. “I know you’re there. What are you waiting for?”
With a deep breath, he rounded the corner and headed in. Yennefer was looking at him oddly, but if she could tell he was nervous she didn’t comment. Which was just as well really as he’d thought a lot about how he was going to do this, and an interruption would throw him off.
He went over to the central table where the Ciri and Yen were waiting as usual, but he didn’t sit. They were both looking at him strangely now as he just stood there, but he didn’t let it put him off. He took a steadying breath and cleared his throat.
“Morning,” he said out loud without fear for the first time since Sodden. Both Yennefer and Ciri’s faces lit up in surprise. His voice still sounded rough and quiet to his own ears, but he’d done it. “Yen. Ciri,” he said to them in turn, spurred on by their reactions.
“Oh Jaskier!” Yennefer said, crossing she short distance between them to pull him into a hug. Ciri got up to join in. “I’m proud of you,” Yennefer said sincerely. Jaskier was glad now that he didn’t have anything else he’d planned on saying as he was feeling rather choked up.
Once the three of them had calmed down, they did get on with the lesson… mostly. Yennefer had planned on teaching them to read minds or something of the sort, but that idea went out the window fairly quickly as neither of them could calm their minds enough to focus. Instead they just practiced what they already knew which consisted mostly of Ciri levitating various objects and sending them flying across the room.
Jaskier was still hesitant to show off his own magic in front of Ciri. Yen had told her when Jaskier had first made the stone float, but beyond that he hadn’t made a great deal of progress so now she was trying to goad him into practicing with her.
“Come on Jaskier. I know you’ve done it at least once. Just show me! Please!” she begged once she had grown bored of her own tricks.
“I’m not as good as you,” he signed, shaking his head.
“So? It’s like Yennefer says, you have to practice,” she said, crossing her arms.
“She makes a good point,” Yennefer said.
“Fine,” he grumbled with a roll of his eyes, eliciting another excited gasp from Ciri. He reached for one of the smaller books piled up at the end of the table, setting it down in front of him. They had moved on from sapping the energy from another source, instead focussing on their own chaos to cast spells so all he needed now was his own fire.
He hadn’t been practicing anywhere as much as Yennefer wanted him to, but he still remembered how to do it. He had to concentrate to not let his fear overcome him, but the book floated up in the air, submitting to his will. He was surprised at how easily magic came to him not that he was no longer supressing it, trying to force the use of a different source.
Smoke began to curl up from the pages, filling the air with the smell of burning parhcment. He dropped it quickly, letting it hit the table with a thud before picking it up to inspect it for damage. It appeared unharmed but it felt unnaturally warm to the touch.
“No harm done,” Yennefer said lightly. “You’d be better at it if you practiced,” she poked. He made a face at her, setting the book back down more gently this time.
“What happened?” Ciri asked, picking up the book to take a look herself.
“Jaskier has a natural talent for fire magic,” Yennefer said casually. Jaskier scowled at her, annoyed she hadn’t asked him first if it was alright to tell her. “Oh, don’t get mad about it, she’d find out one way or another.”
Jaskier gave a disgruntled hum but didn’t argue.
“What does that mean exactly?” Ciri asked.
“It means that he can only draw from fire as a source of chaos. The brotherhood disagrees with it, claims it destroys those who use it, but it’s just propaganda. Your chaos is different too. You draw from something powerful in your blood. It’s why it was so wild and powerful. Differences aren’t bad, it just means a slightly different approach is needed.”
A knock at the door interrupted their little discussion. “I’m not interrupting, am I?” Geralt asked from the doorway.
“Not really,” Yennefer said.
“Jaskier! Say something to Geralt!” she said excitedly.
Geralt raised an eyebrow as he wandered over to the three of them. “Is there something you want to tell me?” he asked.
Jaskier felt like he’d very much been put on the spot, but he didn’t want to disappoint Ciri now, not when she was watching him so eagerly. The anxiety was back, but it wasn’t anywhere near as bad as it had been earlier, so he took a deep breath and spoke. “Hello,” he said.
A grin broke out on Geralt’s face, and he clapped Jaskier on the shoulder. “I knew you’d get there eventually.”
“Was there something you needed,” Yennefer asked when the moment passed.
“Yes, I was wondering if Ciri could finish early. There’s some repairs Vesemir wants me and the others to do before it gets dark so I was thinking she could have her lesson with me a bit sooner.”
Yennefer shrugged. “I think we can spare you today,” she said to Ciri and with that the two of them left the lab.
“You on the other hand still have some work to do,” she said to Jaskier when they were out of sight. She slid the book back in front of him pointedly. “Try again, but please don’t set anything on fire,” she said lightly. Jaskier suspected it would be a while before he’d be allowed to leave.
Spring was beginning to arrive in the mountains and with it the snow had finally begun to melt. The pass was clear enough for them to set out on the road, and so Geralt, Yennefer, Jaskier and Ciri packed what they could and set out. It wasn’t safe to stay in one place any longer than strictly necessary. The wards Yennefer had put up around the keep weren’t impenetrable, and they could easily be overwhelmed should even a small band of soldiers come knocking.
Perhaps if there were more witchers, it might not have been such a great concern, but there were only a handful of them left, not enough to defend their home should invaders come. Geralt had made the difficult decision to take them back out on the path. It hadn’t been easy and he, Yennefer and Jaskier had discussed it extensively, but they had come to the conclusion that staying on the move would be the safest option.
Only a week out from the keep, they were setting up their camp in the woods. The sun was already setting so getting a fire going was a priority, but the day had been plagued by a persistent drizzle, making everything damp. Geralt had managed to find some drier bits of wood but getting it to catch was turning out to be a bigger problem than they’d hoped.
Jaskier was stood under the shelter of a nearby tree with Yennefer and Ciri, watching as Geralt once again held the small flame of igni to the wood, causing it to smoke but not light. He’d been trying for at least ten minutes now, but Jaskier’s patience was beginning to wear thin. They’d been walking all day in the cold and the damp, and they had all been looking forward to a hot meal to lift their spirits. It was looking like they wouldn’t be getting their wish however and it would be a night of cold rations.
Beside Jaskier, Ciri shivered, pulling her cloak tighter around herself, kicking the ground. She looked as miserable as they all felt. With the sky entirely covered by the dark, grey clouds, it was likely this weather would persist for several days. There was only so long they could stay optimistic on cold, hard rations.
“Geralt,” he said, stepping out from under the tree. Geralt looked up, letting the flame in his hand go out.
“Sorry. It’s no good, I can’t get it to catch” he said shaking his head. He stood up straight, brushing some of the dirt off his trousers from where he’d been kneeling.
Jaskier looked down at the rather sad looking pile of wood. Some bits were blackened from where Geralt had been trying to get it to light but the most he’d succeeded in doing was making it smoulder. It was a big enough pile that if he could get it started, it should be able to burn without too much supervision.
Mind made up, Jaskier just made a shooing gesture at Geralt, getting him to stand back. Exasperated, Great did as he was told and took a step back. Without overthinking, Jaskier summoned a flame to his hand before tossing it at the logs, willing it to catch. Sure enough, after a little coaxing, they had a fire going.
“You did it!” Ciri said excitedly, bounding over to hug him.
“You could’ve done that to begin with. Save us from freezing our asses off,” Yennefer teased, still standing under the tree’s shelter, waiting for the fire to properly get going.
After a few minutes of carefully feeding it and a steady supply of chaos, the fire was soon roaring away, enough to warm the air. Yennefer eventually decided it was passable and came out from under the tree, coming to sit beside Jaskier.
“You did well,” she said, softly, gesturing to the fire in front of them. “I know you still don’t like using it, but you didn’t hesitate.”
“It’s nothing,” he shrugged, tossing in a twig for something to distract himself. “Better than cold food.”
“Yes, speaking of,” she said, turning to Geralt who was tending to Roach. “Do we have anything for dinner?”
He sighed, finishing what he was doing before covering Roach with a blanket to keep the damp off. “I’ll go set some traps,” he grumbled.
Night had properly fallen by the time they’d all eaten but Jaskier had kept the fire going, keeping the dark and cold at bay. Everyone was in a considerably better mood now they had warm food in their bellies, and though there was little that could be done about the damp, they at least wouldn’t be shivering in their bedrolls.
Geralt had gone to look for more wood to keep the fire going since Jaskier wouldn’t be able to watch it in his sleep, and Yennefer was sitting off to the side, examining one of the old maps Vesemir had given them, leaving Jaskier and Ciri to their own devices. This was fine by Jaskier. Maybe a year ago he would have found the stillness insufferable, but now it was simply peaceful. Ciri didn’t seem to share this sentiment, fidgeting and flitting from one minor distraction to another.
“Bored?” Jaskier asked when she tossed aside the blades of grass she had been half-heartedly braiding.
“You’re not about to tell me to go to bed are you,” she asked dryly. “I’m not tired.”
“Not at all.” It crossed his mind that he could tell her a story, or maybe sing something to help pass the time, but his confidence still wasn’t quite there yet. Short sentences were fine, but he kept his speech brief and economical. While this worked fine for the most part in conversations, it would make for shitty storytelling.
While he tried to come up with something else he could do to help pass the time, Ciri seemed to have found her own solution. “Do you know any tricks? With fire, I mean.”
While she had known the nature of his magic for some time now, he’d remained reluctant to show it to her properly. He’d taken a more active role in their joint lessons, but none of it actually involved fire itself since Jaskier needed no instruction and it wouldn’t be of a great deal of use to Ciri. His reluctance to use it had apparently led Ciri to believe it was the most interesting thing in the continent.
Well, there was little point in hiding it any longer so with a roll of his eyes and a fond smile, he held his hand out to the fire. With a bit of concentration, he made the image of a lioness in the flames. It roared without sound, bearing its teeth, before prowling around the confines of the fire.
From the corner of his eye, he watched Ciri’s reaction. She was mesmerised by it, wonder making her look more like the child she was. With a shift, the lioness turned into a dragon, leaping into the air to spread its wings. With a little more effort, Jaskier made it leave the flames so that it flew over the camp above their heads, high enough that it wouldn’t accidentally set something on fire. Ciri followed it with her eyes, her mouth hanging a little open in awe.
Inevitably it began to dissolve in the rain. There was no use fighting it, so Jaskier let it fizzle out above their heads as it flew higher into the night sky. Ciri just sat there; eyes transfixed on the spot where the dragon had disappeared. “I wish I knew how to do that,” she said eventually, looking back at Jaskier. “It’s beautiful.”
Unexpected warmth bloomed in Jaskier’s chest at her comment. No one had ever called his magic beautiful before. Most of his life he’d thought of it as a curse, something to be feared and ashamed of. Even Yennefer and Geralt had only gone so far as to assure him it wasn’t dangerous. The nicest thing they might have said was that it was useful or powerful. But beautiful, as though it was something to be enjoyed just for the sake of it? Never.
Jaskier had to look away from Ciri as his vision began to blur. He tried to hold back the tears he felt prickling at his eyes, but against his will they fell anyway. He sniffed, hoping it wasn’t obvious as he tried to get a grip, but Ciri was too damn observant.
“Are you alright?” she asked, only making it harder for him to keep control. He nodded before burying his face in his hands, embarrassed at how easily just one innocuous comment had turned him into a mess.
“Is something wrong?” he heard Yennefer ask from across the camp.
“I… I’m not sure,” Ciri said. “I don’t think so?”
Jaskier shook his head, wiping away his tears on his sleeve, though it was a futile effort as more fell to replace them. He was grinning like a fool still, but in his current state it probably looked more like a grimace.
Yennefer, apparently unconvinced, came over anyway. “What happened?” she asked, sitting by Jaskier. He opened his mouth to tell her, but his heightened emotions made it hard to speak. All he could manage was a short huff of laughter.
Of course, this was the moment Geralt chose to return, with Jaskier in tears and both Yennefer and Ciri visibly concerned. Jaskier hid his face in his hands again, utterly embarrassed that this was turning into such a big deal.
“What happened?” Geralt asked.
“I’m not sure yet,” Yennefer said. “Ciri?”
“I… I just… I told him his magic was beautiful,” she admitted shyly.
“Oh, you utter sap,” Yennefer said teasingly, rubbing his back. “Is that it?”
Jaskier nodded, still not emerging from his hands.
“I didn’t… do anything wrong, did I?” Ciri asked.
“No, he’s just a soft-hearted fool,” Yennefer said.
Jaskier managed to pull himself mostly together, wiping his eyes and taking a deep breath to calm himself. After double checking he was alright, Yennefer went back to studying her map. Geralt added another log to the fire while Ciri shuffled over to give Jaskier a hug, clinging to his side.
It had taken him a long time and a lot of pain and hard work to get here, to this moment. It wasn’t just Sodden and the subsequent fallout, losing his voice and passion, numbed by constant fear. There was the dragon hunt where he’d had his heart torn to shreds, left to fend for himself.
The djinn, where Geralt had bound Yennefer to his own fate, and that fateful night in Cintra where he had claimed the law of surprise.
A backwater tavern at the edge of the world.
A boy running scared for his life, fearing his own power.
It was all worth it, Jaskier decided, to have this unlikely family of misfits.
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