Chapter Text
“Right then,” Yennefer says ten minutes later as she perches on a small boulder, finally releasing Jaskier's forearm. She stretches out her legs, and for the first time he can see that something is wrong with the right one.
He waves to catch the attention of a nearby cowled healer who isn't currently hauling a moaning body away to tend to her. The healer approaches and kneels at Yennefer's side. Their hands hover over the leg and glow faintly for a moment, searching for the damage, Jaskier assumes.
Yennefer willfully ignores the healer's presence as she continues to speak. “What are the different ways to disrupt a portal?”
Jaskier feels his gorge rise as he watches the healer slice up the mage's underskirt with some shears, exposing a wooden splinter that looks to be a foot long, deeply embedded just above her knee. He looks away, settling a few feet from her and beginning to do hand and wrist stretches. He hears a squelching sound from the pair's direction and swallows hard. He focuses very, very hard on those stretches.
“Easiest way is to kill the mage responsible for it,” Cat says, sitting cross legged on the ground a few yards away. She picks at the buckles of her armor, dislodging what looks suspiciously like a finger. The fire before them decides that is the perfect time to pop and crackle loudly, so the wet plop of flesh hitting the ground is drowned out.
“Or overloading it with power,” Triss suggests, wearily leaning against Yennefer's boulder and sliding down it to settle with a soft groan on the ground.
“That is valid, Triss, though the cost for destroying a portal of this size would be… devastating. And the problem with killing the mage,” Tissaia says as she tosses a branch into the fire pit, “is that I don't think Fringilla is the one powering the spell any more.” She leans against a column of rock, brushing dust and dirt off of her face.
“Which means she has it bound to a focus item or, more unlikely, a location," another mage, this one in an elaborately-embroidered, high-collared robe says. She uses her telekinesis to pull a large broken beam over to the circle and sits down with a swish of her skirts.
“Would it do any good to go through the portal and kill the thing before it comes through?” a druid asks, his legs sprawled wide as he sits leaning against his wyvern. His mount turns its head towards him, and he takes out a scrap of cloth and a metal probe to start cleaning its teeth. Its tail lashes irritably but it settles with a soft word.
Tissaia lets out a harsh bark of a laugh. “Sadly, Master Druid, that is not a possibility. On the other side of that portal is the cold emptiness of the space between the stars and the Spheres. No being from this world can travel there and live long enough to reach the creature, let alone kill it.”
“Is there some way to recognize the item powering the portal?” Coën – the witcher Tissaia had been using as a crutch – asks. He sits cross legged on the ground like Cat, his steel sword in his lap as he cleans it with care.
Cat hums thoughtfully. “If someone is willing to give us a ride up to the portal, a witcher may be able to catch enough of a scent of the magic to find it.” She pauses and lowers the scarf covering the bottom half of her face. Jaskier catches a glimpse of a horrendous scar on her cheek before she ducks her head to use her teeth to pry something out from between the lacings on her left bracer. She continues after spitting the thing to the side. “If, that is, we have a general location to search.” She pushes the scarf back up, unperturbed by the momentary silence at the uncovering of her face.
Jaskier shakes himself. He doesn't know if he wants Cat's story of how that scar happened, even if she remembers it. He pointedly continues as if he hadn't seen a thing. “The Nilfgaardian encampment on the other side of the forest,” he offers. He stretches his fingers out one more time before pulling Filavandrel's lute around from its place on his back to give it a quick look over. There is only a minor scratch from using it to block that arrow, and he stifles the urge to kiss the beautiful, hardy thing.
Yennefer clicks her tongue and considers. “That would be a place to start, at least.” She glances at the witchers. “It might be best if both of you caught the scent, that way we can check two locations simultaneously. Or perhaps to move more quickly through one location?”
“Sensible,” Cat agrees, raising an eyebrow at the other witcher.
Coën shrugs. "The mage - Fringilla, did you call her? - got the Rectoress and me in the face with some dimeritium. While I cannot use my signs, my swords are still at the ready." He flashed a smile. "As is my nose."
Cat chuckles darkly and her eyes crinkle in amusement as she says, "We could also raid the bastards. It's not like they'd need the supplies if they're all dead."
Coën smiles at her. "Which would you prefer - hunting this artifact or collecting supplies?"
The older witcher laughs. "I'll find the thing. You have fun with the horses." She cocks her head and winks at the assembled group. "For some reason, they just don't like me."
The druid stops cleaning his wyvern's teeth and wearily stands, bracing himself on the creature. “I'll see who's in the best shape to be hauling witchers.” He nods to those assembled and with a tap to its hide, he and the wyvern walk towards the other druids.
Jaskier hears a whisper of movement nearby and turns to see the Mother on her perch of a massive piece of broken masonry. He shivers involuntarily; he hadn't noticed that she was there. Her voice echoes in his mind, and from how quickly the others turn they hear her as well. We should set up a signal to let each other know who succeeds in destroying the focus. Then we can work together to destroy that. She makes a gesture towards the portal.
Everyone glances up at the portal, and Jaskier can tell that the glowing thing is bigger than it had been last time he dared look. As night continues to fall, the light from the portal keeps the area from true darkness.
A word bubbles up from the recesses of his memory. Eldritch.
He shudders.
Jaskier only knows that the fourth act has begun and the witchers have succeeded in finding the power source when one of them sends up a red flare from the Nilfgaardian encampment.
When he glances up towards the portal, he can no longer see the edges of the – what did Tissaia call it? a Great Old One? It is just a sickly orange light that looks like it's torn a burning hole in the night sky. Part of him wants to continue staring at the horrible sight, but he remembers Tissaia's warnings to everyone -
Looking too long on the Old One leads to madness.
He swallows hard and focuses on the drum starting to boom again. It is near deafening, being so close to the instrument but the erudite magic users were very specific in the formation of the spell's pattern. He looks around the strategic placement of bodies and wonders with a sick swallow how many will survive if the destruction of the focus isn't enough.
The scholarly mage types had argued until they settled on a ritual pattern that had the greatest chance for the survival of the participants. In it, most of the remaining magic users and bards stand. The bards are evenly spaced in a rough circle facing inward, with two magic users behind each of them. Every magic user, be they druid or mage or sorcerer, has a hand on the shoulder of the bard in front of them. For the spell to work, they will use the bards as vessels, with the bards sending the power forward into the inner pattern at a specific moment.
As he rolls his shoulders, Jaskier feels Triss' hand grasp his left shoulder with an affectionate squeeze while the strange druid on his right just holds on. He looks forward again, toward the inner section - a triangle consisting of the skalds with their ancient instruments and the Mother herself. And the person at the center of everything.
Because, of course, who would be at the center of everything if not Yennefer of Vengerberg?
She stands proudly at the center, staring a challenge at the portal. As the most powerful of the present mages and the least likely to get turned to ash from the undertaking, it was her responsibility to 'loose the arrow' as the Mother called it.
Faster this time, the bagpipe joins the drum and then the Mother thunders out a challenge.
Axes flash and broadsword swing
Shining armor's piercing ring
Horses run with polished shield
Jaskier and the other bards roar out the next lyrics with the Mother, and the mages – druids, sorcerers, anyone with a scrap of magic in their souls – around them pour their will, their chaos into the bards as if they were instruments themselves.
Fight those bastards til they yield
The portal...
shudders.
Cat must be attempting to destroy the focus artifact.
The portal settles again, though it doesn't look as stable as it once did.
Of course it would be too easy if interfering with the artifact was enough to disrupt the damned portal.
The song continues. The Mother calls out her lyrics and as if they have been doing this for years the other bards respond in unison.
The building chaos is a live thing that seeks to drown them all. It feels like something is putting pressure on him from the inside, like his skin doesn't fit properly. To distract himself Jaskier shifts his gaze to the other side of the circle and sees several folks waver, but the pattern holds. He swallows, turns his eyes back to the middle, and raises his voice with the others again.
He remembers his first class on using bardic magic. The lecturer stood before a podium and expounded on the subject for far longer than Jaskier cared to think on, but one thing stood out the most:
“Where students of Ban Ard and Aretuza are taught to bottle lightning as a way of controlling chaos," the lecturer said, pretending to grab something from midair to emphasize his point, "a bard – any bard that wishes to be worth his or her salt – learns to ride the lightning." He loosened his fist and turned the gesture into something more like he was cupping liquid. "We do not seek to tame it, we do not seek to control it – at best what we wish to do is guide it.”
Ride the lightning, he thinks. He trembles as the pressure continues to build. He feels like an overripe fruit, his skin ready to burst with the lightest touch.
“BARDS!” Tissaia roars from her place outside the ritual, and as one the bards in the inner circle throw their right hands forward towards the skalds and the Mother.
The pressure abruptly starts to drain away as power rips from Jaskier and he hears several voices raised in shrieks of terror and pain. He doesn't take his eyes from the trio before him, though he feels a moment of sickness wondering who has fallen.
Ride the lightning.
He focuses everything into the magic, into the spell, into the desire to destroy the portal threatening them. He feels the hand on his right shoulder clamp down like a griffin's claws about to rip him away. He hears Triss whimper softly, her hand on his left starting to shake. He feels his own life force draining from him, feels his flesh start to wither and collapse, and oh, Melitele preserve him, it hurts -
Tissaia has been watching for the sign from the encampment, and she apparently sees it. “NOW!” she screams, and as one the skalds and the Mother direct the ocean of power they've all helped build straight
into
Yennefer.
The violet-eyed mage screams and suddenly Jaskier is back in that house with the angry djinn and he falters, then regains his control again.
Ride the lightning, he thinks one more time.
Yennefer's screams hit a level he's never heard anyone reach before, and she sounds like she's in agony or in a paroxysm of pleasure, and from her explodes a barely-visible wave of chaos.
It flies straight as an arrow to the portal, and blessed be all of the saints and any other deity willing to listen to Jaskier's prayers, the creature has still not breached it.
The wave of chaos strikes the portal, and with a thunderclap heard throughout the Continent it snaps closed.
A breath.
Two.
Three.
Jaskier drops to his hands and knees as if his strings were cut. He closes his eyes, hearing others fall around him, hears Triss sobbing in breaths as if her heart's been broken. He hears nothing from the druid.
His head starts to throb, and to ease the pressure he pries his mask off and presses his fingers to his temple. It doesn't help.
He opens his eyes. He looks behind, to his right. There's a pile of ash and clothes where the druid had stood.
He swallows, looks to his left. Triss is alive, but she has crumpled to the ground like him. Her robes sit wrong on her shoulders, as if underneath them she is more bone than flesh.
He reaches out a hand to her and sees that it doesn't look much better. The last time he saw the bones of his wrist so clearly he was newly conscious after a month-long wasting illness that should by all accounts have killed him. Even in the light from the nearby torches and fire pits he can see that his skin is almost translucent. He thinks he sees the veins in his hand pulse with his heartbeat.
He ignores the vague nausea the thought inspires and presses his hand gently to Triss' shoulder. It feels as brittle as bird bones.
She has her hand pressed against her sternum, and as he watches she pulls a dagger from a sheath in her boot and shakily tries to cut her robes open at the chest.
Healers descend on the exhausted magic users and bards, and as one kneels beside them Jaskier watches Triss succeed in tearing the robe open to expose her breastbone.
There's a raw, open wound that stretches from just under her chin down to between her breasts. It looks like someone splashed acid on her, and yet it does not bleed. She shakes like she's crying and Jaskier realizes she's not making a sound except for wheezing gasps of air.
He tries to say her name.
Nothing comes out.
He tries again. Nothing. There's a raw ache in his throat, as if he's been singing - or screaming - for hours.
Before he can panic, the Mother's voice sounds in his head. Do not fear, my songbirds. Your voices are not permanently gone – the healers will supply you with tinctures and by morning's end you should be talking again. Even her mental voice sounds drained.
Jaskier shudders and tries to pull Triss to him for comfort. She comes to him, and as he presses his lips to her now-brittle hair he hears Tissaia say something.
It takes a moment, but when the words register he can't help but tighten his grip on Triss.
“Where's Yennefer? There's no- there's no ash where she was standing – where is she?”
He feels the panic strike Triss hard enough to make her shudder, and while she can't speak aloud she is still strong enough to scream into the space where thoughts reside.
Yennefer?!
Jaskier feels the other mages all start to cry out for her, aloud and in their minds. He tries to add his mental voice to it, even though he knows that telepathy has never been one of his gifts. His head screams but he refuses to stop trying.
Amidst all the voices in his head, he would swear for a moment he heard Geralt as well.
Something shifts in the air. He looks up, sensing something over his head. He can't see it, but -
Yennefer falls through the invisible portal from… somewhere, landing on him, Triss, and their attending healer. The healer – the only one who can make a sound – yelps with surprise and curses.
For a rough moment, Jaskier wonders if a corpse has landed on them. Yennefer smells of something burnt to cinders, and nothing living should stink like that.
Then she lets out a shuddering exhalation. Jaskier would let out a shriek of surprised terror if he could - the only sound that comes out is a whistled breath.
Tissaia is at their side in a heartbeat, motioning for another healer to check Yennefer over. They roll her off of her human cushions and when Jaskier sees her he has to swallow a tight lump in his throat.
The once-beautiful mage looks... ravaged by fire and sickness. Her eyes are closed, but sunken deeply in their sockets, and half of her face is marred by what look like burns. Her throat looks similar to Triss' but worse – charred so badly he thinks he can see the muscle underneath. Her hair – what there is left – is all but burnt away.
The healer calls for assistance and a stretcher. Before Jaskier can do much more than shiver in repulsed reaction, they whisk the burnt mage away. Tissaia follows on their heels.
He and Triss cling to each other. Eventually they stop crying.
Dawn is slow in arriving.
In the darkness it's difficult to count the bodies, but Jaskier knows that there were fifteen piles of ash and clothing in the pattern. His heart is heavy when he thinks of those that gave up their lives to close that accursed portal. He won't know the full death count for some time, he thinks. There are many bodies in the forest, and while the majority are clearly going to be the corpses of enemies, someone should make a count.
By the time the sky has finally started to brighten, the allied fighters have started trickling in from the forest. Cat and Coën return, along with a wagon of supplies and a line of a dozen horses. They and other allies carry word that the few Nilfgaardians that survived and were able to walk or crawl away have done so. No one knows where the leader of the troops is, nor the mage Yennefer and Tissaia called Fringilla.
From the other side of the bridge – where the priestesses of Melitele have their tents – comes the message that the armies of the north have been spotted. They are still a distance away, but the air among the wounded becomes a little lighter.
There are oddly thick patches of fog still present in some spots in the forest though most have faded away. No one can locate the sea witches. When asked, the remaining berserkers shrug. “It is their way, when their sisters die,” one grizzled old warrior says, then drops the subject.
Jaskier can't quite work up the energy to be truly nosy, though it bothers him a bit how evasive the normally chatty Skelligan fighters are behaving.
He also doesn't have the energy to begin a head count of those who died and who survived, but he sees a newly-healed Sabrina walking among the survivors with a scroll, writing names down. He makes a mental note to request a copy, as he knows that the historians at Oxenfurt would do quite a lot of things for such a list, as well as some sort of first-hand report. He doesn't feel capable of talking to a woman that tried to kill him at the moment, even if she was possessed by something.
What he is capable of doing, however, is sitting by a fire pit with water constantly being boiled. It’s being used for drinking and cleaning wounds. Whenever possible he fills his waterskin with barely-cooled water and drains it dry before the pot has been refilled. He is thirsty and he is not the only one – all of the folk that had a hand in closing the portal are in similar straits.
The tinctures prepared by the healers do wonders, and by the time high noon rolls around Jaskier's voice is mostly back. The unnatural dryness that affected all those that were part of the ritual is also fading. None of the surviving mages can lift so much as a leaf with their powers and the bards get blinding headaches if they try to sing or play with intent, but the healers swear that the effects will fade as they replenish their energies.
Jaskier would like to know how long that will take, but no healer gives him a satisfactory answer.
“Just rest,” one of them finally snaps. She is younger, and pretty in a quiet way, but her eyes are sunken with exhaustion. “Spend time with your loved ones and you'll recover faster. Go for a quiet walk with a friend, tell a story to some of the orphans, play something peaceful to soothe the wounded. You'll recover when you recover.”
He feels vaguely guilty for pestering the healer, but takes her advice in a roundabout way.
He lays claim to two buckets of unheated water and tracks down his knapsack. He finds an empty room of the keep, strips and gratefully rinses off the worst of the dirt and filth with one of the buckets and a spare scrap of cloth. The soiled grey robes go into his knapsack and he starts feeling better as soon as he pulls on relatively clean smallclothes and his least dirty chemise. Of the few outfits he has in his bag, the midnight blue with the dove grey embroidery at the trim is the one that looks to be in the best shape, so on it and his most comfortable boots go and then off he goes to track down his friend.
Those with the most life-threatening injuries are resting in a nearby area of the keep, the healers unwilling to move them farther than strictly needed. He finds Triss there, sitting beside Yennefer's cot. She doesn't look like she has rested much since helping with the wounded, and still wears the stained and battered robe from the night before.
With some convincing he coaxes her away and stands – or, well, sits – guard while she rinses herself off in the empty room he had used. There is little that can be done for her robe, but he finds his sewing kit in his bag and asks anyway. She directs him to leave the neckline open; anything touching her neck and sternum has been burning like fire. He does the best he can to make the neckline even and leave an open area for the wound. When she offers her hand from around the doorway he hands it over. He hears rustling and a hum of satisfaction, and when she steps from behind the doorway she is smiling.
“This works.” She drops a kiss on his forehead. “Thank you.”
She offers her hand and he takes it, rising to his feet with a little groan. His knees pop and he can't help thinking that the entire experience in this cursed keep has been a reminder that he is no longer as young as he used to be. Ah, well.
With the carefully-cultivated magic in his blood, he thinks he'll at least get at least a few more decades than an average human. If he's smart and keeps from getting himself killed, that is. He does however know that slowed aging is not the same as halted aging; the ravages of time will still weaken him and make him creaky.
He just hopes that most of his current creaks are a temporary affliction from magical exhaustion.
After a short discussion about where to go, Triss decides that if they are going for a walk, it would be more efficient if they looked for ingredients. Herbs to reduce inflammation and combat sepsis, that sort of thing would be helpful for the healers. They leave the keep and head – slowly and with great caution for debris and their own weary bodies – towards the ruined gatehouse and the forest beyond.
When they pass through the empty archway, a voice calls to them from overhead. Jaskier glances up and spots the witcher Coën perched on the wall above them.
“Oh, hello!” Jaskier calls back. “Are you guarding us, kind Witcher?”
Coën smiles a bit and waves a hand before him in an 'eh' gesture. “It's more peaceful out here, and I might as well be of some use.”
Jaskier considers his response, and then nods. “Ah, yes. Too noisy up at the keep?”
“And rather,” the witcher pauses delicately, “pungent.”
At Triss' questioning look, he elaborates. “Witcher senses are more acute than a standard human. Sometimes they can be... overwhelming to the point of distraction.”
Jaskier hums thoughtfully. “I think that explains a great deal about how Geralt acts sometimes. And of course the stubborn bastard never actually told me this – I just thought he was perpetually grumpy.”
Coën peers down at him for a moment, then the light dawns. “You must be the bard that travels with him sometimes. I've heard your songs.”
Jaskier preens and carefully nudges his elbow into Triss' side. “He's heard my songs,” he says in a stage whisper.
Triss laughs at him. “But he didn't say he liked them, did he?”
At Jaskier's pout Coën laughs lightly. “I like them just fine. The song about coins gets stuck in your head until something hits it hard enough to knock it out, but it and the other ones you wrote have... made our Paths easier these past fifteen years or so.” He dips his head at Jaskier with a small smile. “So thank you, Master Bard.”
Jaskier beams up at the witcher. “Call me Jaskier.”
“Jaskier then.”
“If you have the time,” Jaskier starts, unable to resist, “I would love to hear any stories you would be willing to share.” He makes a disappointed face and continues, “Geralt is terrible about giving me details.”
“I can try my best, but it will have to wait for another time.” Coën looks away from them and out down the path. “I hear someone approaching.” He cocks his head and listens.
Jaskier remembers a peculiar moment he'd had right after the portal closed and has a sudden flash of thought. The thought cements, and he just knows. His breath catches and bends over, starting to wheeze like he's dying.
Triss smacks him hard on the back. “Jaskier?” she asks.
“Oh, gods,” he hisses, then starts cackling like a madman. “Oh my fucking luck. I know who it is. People-” he chokes again on his laughter. “People linked by destiny will always find each other. Because of fucking course, who else could it be coming up this particular path at this particular time?"
And, at the furthest point visible on the pathway up to the keep, he and Triss spot several figures.
A chestnut horse with a pale girl on her back walks up the path. A tall, broad-shouldered man with white hair, dressed all in black walks at their side. On his shoulder sits a bundle of feathers, and above his head several other bundles of feathers wheel around, tweedling with unmistakable glee.