Chapter Text
The first thing that people always notice about her is her eyes, normally that is also the thing that makes them run. Not the swords strapped to her back or the bow strung over her shoulder, but the deep black of her eyes in the night and navy blues they are during the day.
The bard in front of her, however, was not running and didn’t show the slightest interest in Maeve's eye. That is probably due to the dagger in the man's thigh, but for once it wasn’t one of hers after an ill reaction, and she has no plans of putting one in him either if he stays as uninterested in her as he is now.
“Do you have any idea how to fix this? Because I have no idea,” the bard rambles as he tries to stop the bleeding with his trembling hands, “healing wasn’t something they taught at my school and my family had a healer so I never had to learn but now I am regretting ever ignoring the healers wish to teach me,”
Maeve moves his hands away from the dagger as nicely as she is able, so as to not spook him and cause the trembling to be worse, the more he trembles that faster the blood seeps from around the dagger.
“It isn’t in deep, I should be able to get it out and stop the bleeding without to much damage to the muscle,” she tells him while ripping pieces of her tunic to create a quick tourniquet. Truth be told she has removed so many daggers she is not worried about removing it, but she has also only tended to witchers and other mutated beings, never a human. So maybe she is a little worried.
“Well then get it out! I do not wish to be a kebab forever,” The bard jerked his leg as Maeve grabbed the handle so Maeve pinches his skin and growls for him to stop moving.
“This is why I don’t leave the fucking kingdom,” She whispers to herself and rips the blade out of his skin, blood bubbles up immediately but there doesn’t seem to be any liquid other than blood so she doesn’t have to worry about treating poison as well. Lord knows how long the bard would take to heal from that and she is not keen to stay with him any longer than it takes to stitch up the wound.
“Oh, my gods that hurt, why is it bleeding so much? Is that normal? Is my leg going to fall off?!” Maeve ignores the bard as she starts threading the needle with the special thread she and the healers of Kaer Morhen had made specifically for wounds. It is one of her best creations if she does say so herself.
“I guess if my leg falls off that is fine, I could learn to live with a limp and it would make a great ballad. Hmm, maybe I will write a ballad about it regardless.” The bard continues to ramble on even as Maeve starts to stitch the skin shut, she assumes it is his coping mechanism so doesn’t tell him to shut up, no matter how much she wants to.
“Your leg won’t fall off, nor will I have to cut it off thankfully. Gods I would probably leave you here before I would cut off your leg,” She scrunches up her face as the memory of the first and last time she had to perform an amputation comes to the front of her mind. There was so much blood covering her armour that she couldn’t clean it and ended up having to buy a whole new chest plate, the rest is forever stained a dark brown.
“You’ve cut off a leg before?” Maeve looks up at the bard and looks for the horror or fear, but all she finds is wonder and.. Awe?
“What do they call you bard?” she asks instead of answering.
“My name is Jaskier but most call me dandelion,” Jaskier answers in what can only be a noble tone, one that is used for royal visits. “What do they call you? Wait let me guess, Blue?”
Maeve opens her mouth to respond before he can continue with guessing, but he waves his hand and continues on anyway, “No no that isn’t it, bellflower? No, you don’t seem the flower type, hmm maybe something... swordy?” Maeve snorts and ties off the last stitch, she admires her work for a second then ties a piece of her ripped tunic over the wound.
“Steel? Navy? Sword? Dear gods please don't tell me your name is actually sword” The bard continues to rattle off names as Maeve helps him up off the forest floor, “Oh I know! Wolf!” Jaskier exclaims in excitement, pointing to the medallion resting in-between Maeve's breast over her tunic.
“Actually my name is Maeve, but I am called blue wolf on occasion when no one bothers to learn my name,”
“Oh blue wolf, yes I can definitely make a song out of that, do you prefer sad songs or loves songs?” Jaskier picks up the lute that Maeve had placed beside him after helping him from the tavern to the edge of the forest, away from the men she had killed after they tried to kill her.
He strums a couple of chords, some of them sounding choppy because of the missing string.
“I prefer drinking songs, but I also have never heard a sad song or love song,” Jaskier opens his mouth in a way that Maeve can only explain as shock, so she explains herself, “The kingdom where I live currently does not have a bard, and the only time I am around bards is when I am in a tavern after finishing a job. Normally they only play drinking songs.”
Jaskier nods his head in understanding and looks Maeve over making the hair on the back of her neck stand up, not from fear but discomfort. The only time men look at her like that is either when they want to kill her or they want to fuck her.
“Well, we will have to change that. What kind of kingdom doesn’t have a bard?” He picks up his bag and places the strap over his chest then turns his whole body to face Maeve. “Alright lead the way.” He throws a hand out in a weird gesture that Maeve doesn’t have the brain capacity to understand at the moment.
“Lead the way where?”
“To your bardless kingdom,” Jaskier answers as if it was obvious. Maeve blinks at him and looks around them at the forest as if she will find understanding in the leaves.
“Wait you want to come to my kingdom? Don’t you have your own to get back to?” Maeve had seen the family crest tattooed on the man’s forearm, the crest she was certain comes from a noble family in Lettenhove. Which means Jaskier has his own kingdom of sorts he has to tend to, and not hers, definitely not hers. Eskel would never let her live it down if she came back with a bard of all things, and Lambert would more than likely kill the poor thing.
The smell of sadness and fear hit Maeve harshly, making her want to take a step back from the source, the only thing that stops her is her years of training.
The bards eyes are watering slightly once Maeve looks back at him after searching the forest for a reason his emotions were so pungent. She found nothing that should make him upset, and understanding dawns on her as she watches him fight the tears and his emotions that are so clear on his face she feels them more than she has ever even felt her own.
“Oh,” she whispers, looking at the man with soft eyes. She would give him pitty if she thought it would help, but it never does.
She smiles lightly at the man and turns north, the direction of her home.
Looks like Geralt isn’t the only one who brings home strays.