Archive of Our Own

Jaskier walks into the woods searching for a suitable place to relieve himself and finds himself, once again, in the absolute worst place at an even worse time.

At this point, he’s about to start listing it with his skills. First, he’s the best bard on the Continent; second, he has a great many sexual accomplishments and abilities; third, he’s incredibly talented at getting himself tangled up into total clusterfucks.

Oh, and a fourth – befriending Witchers.

However, that one seems just a little ironic at current.

There’s a blade to his throat, deadly sharp and pressed much too tightly to be anything but active, real threat. He could technically reach his dagger right now, but he hardly thinks that would be a prudent choice. After all, the Witcher holding a dagger to his windpipe not only has a reason to kill him, he’s also a Cat.

Jaskier swallows carefully against the pressure of the knife and raises his hands so they’re visible. He can’t see much now, head yanked back and facing a tree he’d been considering dropping trou in front of. But he’d seen the flash of a medallion, heard the huff of a horse. Enough to put together exactly who – or, as the case could be, what – accosted him.

“Hello!” he says, as bright as he can. “I think there’s been a misunderstanding, here, Wit – ”

The knife digs a little closer, enough that Jaskier knows there’ll be a scratch. No blood yet, but too close for comfort.

“No misunderstanding,” the Witcher hisses. “The Witcher’s Bard, they call you. Used to just be about that White Wolf of yours, but you’ve got more now, don’t you.” He laughs, something manic and maddened. Jaskier fights the shudder that tries to shake his spine. “Well, your habit of saving them means you shafted me out of quite the lucrative contract.”

Jaskier bites back a gasp. It was another Witcher. Cat.

“So you’re the one who tried to kill Letho,” he deduces.

There’s that deranged laugh again. The knife shifts, just slightly to the side; enough to cut. Not an accidental movement, no – calculated. It stings, and there’s blood, but it’s child’s play compared to what this Witcher could do to him. A warning. “And you’re the imbecile who kept him alive.”

“Not the worst thing I’ve been called,” Jaskier says, forced cheeriness turning his tone less confident than he wants. “And anyway, I’m hardly obligated to keep out of Witcher contracts. In fact, I make quite the hobby of making Witcher contracts and whereabouts my personal business, so – ”

“Shut up,” the Witcher snaps, and the knife moves again. More blood, more stinging. Jaskier bites his lip equally bloody to keep the pained gasp at the back of this throat. “You owe me, bard, and I’m not – ”

There’s a creak of a wagon, hoofbeats, and then the oddly loud sound of someone rushing through the undergrowth of the forest. A booming voice interrupts their little hostage situation. “Keep your knives to yourself, Karadin,” it says. “The last thing we need is the Wolves coming down on us.”

The Witcher behind Jaskier – Karadin, he supposes – sneers audibly. “There’s more of us,” he says. “We would win.”

“Maybe,” the new voice – another Witcher, presumably – agrees. He waltzes out of the trees and into sight at that moment, following his previous words with, “but we’d lose too many to their rage, and it’s pointless, anyhow. Let the bard go.”

Jaskier looks this new Witcher up and down the best he can. He’s hardly wearing any armor; shoulder pads, and cover for his legs up to his knees, but that’s it. The rest is just thick leather bands. He carries three swords instead of  two, and has multiple pouches strapped to his thighs – potions or bombs, probably. He’s clean-shaven, with short, dark hair that lengthens in the middle-front, styled so it stands up but messily, almost windswept and still showing loose curls. Under the leather and all the straps for his pouches, he’s wearing blue. It's dark, but looks brighter than it is against the warm sepia of his skin.

Blue. Something niggles at the back of his head. Jaskier knows this Witcher, but how? A name isn’t coming to him, and the blade against his throat isn’t helping.

“Karadin,” the new Witcher says again, a certain authority in his tone. “Let the bard go.”

“Aiden – ”

“Karadin, I don’t want to have to force you, but I can, and I will.”

Aiden. The puzzle pieces in Jaskier’s head click, and relief floods through him. Aiden doesn’t seem to notice, aside from a slight tilt of his head.

Slowly, Karadin lets go of him. As soon as he’s clear of the dagger, Jaskier ducks and stumbles forward until he’s even with Aiden, then straightens.

“Aiden,” he greets, as warmly as he can with the stinging of his throat a pressing anxiety. “Lambert’s friend.”

Aiden snorts. “Mm. Friend, yes. And you’re the bard, the White Wolf’s infamous barker. And, as of late, Eskel and Lambert’s, as well.”

Jaskier flushes, but doesn’t look down or away. “Yes,” he agrees. He stays steady while the Witcher looks him over, seemingly inspecting every particle of dust that makes up Jaskier’s body. After several long minutes, he finishes his inspection with a smirk.

“Come with me,” he says, and jerks his head back in the direction he’d come from. “If you follow us, Karadin, I won’t hesitate to stab you. And, from what I’ve heard,” his smirk widens, and he reaches out to pat the front of Jaskier’s chest – right where his dagger is, “neither will the bard.”

Jaskier can’t help but snort, and he follows Aiden back through the woods.

Now, there’s a part of him that’s cautious. He knows of Aiden, yes, and the Witcher did just save him from a fellow, but – he’s still a Cat. Unpredictable, emotional lot, from what little he’s been told, what he’s been able to glean for himself. A memorable story of Lambert’s claims Aiden nearly tossed him off a cliff side for cheating at cards.

So he follows, but keeps a good few feet of distance between them, and his arms crossed over his chest; easier to grab his dagger that way.

“So,” Aiden says, conversationally, as they walk. “I hear you make a habit of helping Witchers. And not just the Wolves.”

“That’s right,” Jaskier nods. “Though I’m sure you’ve gathered, they are my favorites.”

Aiden laughs. They come to a stream that cuts through the woods, and he perches on a boulder next to the bank. Jaskier lets himself relax a little, and leans on a tree across from him. “That’s certainly one way of putting it,” he agrees. “Last I saw Lambert, he reeked of you. Recognized your smell before anything else when you walked past the caravan.”

Jaskier raises a brow. He’ll let Aiden decide what he’s asking, frankly, because he’s got quite a few questions, and he gets the feeling he’ll only get the answers Aiden wants to give.

He doesn’t recall seeing the Dyn Marv Caravan anywhere nearby. Then again, he supposes, that’s probably their whole schtick. No one trusts Cats, least of all the people who hire them, it would make sense that they rely on stealth to survive.

“You called Lambert and I friends,” Aiden says, and there’s a particular glint in his eye.

Jaskier snorts. “Yes, well,” he says. “Friends in the same way Lambert and I are.”

“Has he told you that?”

“Gods no,” Jaskier grins and shakes his head. “You have met the man.”

Aiden rolls his eyes. “I have.”

“I’m very good at hearing the things no one ever says out loud,” Jaskier says, a measure of boasting in his tone. He can tell why Lambert likes Aiden already; he’s easy to talk to, and he’s – bright, he thinks. Not just in the way of smarts, though almost definitely that, but there’s something about him that’s very separate from the other Witchers Jaskier has met – even his favorite Wolves. A sort of fire to him that’s absent in most Witchers. Like the Path hasn’t beat the spirit out of him. “And if I can be brutally honest – ”

“I encourage it.”

Jaskier laughs. “Well, he’s – dare I say – rather enamored with you.”

Aiden laughs, too. “Yes, I know,” he says. “He doesn’t, though. But that’s a problem for a different day.”

Jaskier hums. “Yes, you did mention my habit of helping Witchers. What do you need?”

“I have a contract on a Lord,” Aiden starts, and holds up a hand when Jaskier opens his mouth. “Not just politics, for once. He’s a werewolf.”

Jaskier’s mouth snaps shut.

“And not one that can be reasoned with,” Aiden continues. Jaskier quirks a brow. “Not all of us are complete brutes,” Aiden rolls his eyes again. “If I can get paid without bloodshed, I will. I’ve tried to reason with the man, convince him to stop killing, but all I got for it was archers at my back.”

“Ah.” Jaskier nods. He’s seen it before. It’s never any less awful, knowing that something that can be reasoned with refuses to see reason and has to be cut down. He never sees Geralt quieter than after those kinds of contracts. “How do you think I can help, then?”

“Well, you’re a bard,” Aiden gestures at Jaskier in his entirety. “And, from a few whispers I’ve heard, a competent spy.”

Jaskier’s brows raise to his hairline. “…yes,” he agrees, slowly. “Though I hardly thought the Cat Witchers would still operate in the kind of circles with that information.”

“We operate in more circles than you think, bard,” Aiden grins. “More than you want to know, probably.”

“Hm.” Jaskier considers for a moment. “What would you have me do?”

“Offer to perform. If they won’t pay you for it, I will, later. I just need a way inside; surely you can do some snooping between singing and find a back door for me?”

Jaskier grins. “Yes,” he nods. “Yes, I certainly can.”

It’s not hard to get an invitation to perform at one of the Lord’s dinners.

All he has to do is set up at the local tavern and introduce himself, really. Aiden had said that this Lord is pompous and self-important, one who demands the very best at all times, so it had followed that he’d want the best musicians at his parties.

Jaskier is, in fact, the best bard on the Continent, if he does say so himself.

He only has to perform at the tavern for an hour, maybe an hour and a half, before a courtier arrives with summons. The man is dressed extravagantly and looks incredibly out of place among the poor villagers populating the tavern.

Seeing the contempt in their eyes erases the last doubt Jaskier has about this contract of Aiden’s. It’s clear this Lord doesn’t care for his peoples, that he’s more wrapped up in his little castle and parties and his particular affliction to mind his job. So Jaskier accepts the summons, promises he’ll be there the night after next night wearing his best clothes and with his lute, and sends a covert message to Aiden as soon as the courtier is gone.

He performs a few more songs for the tavern patrons, accepts a free meal and room at the inn for payment, and begins to plan.

Aiden meets him outside the inn before he begins the long walk to the Lord’s estate. If Jaskier didn’t already know who he is, he’d never peg him as a Witcher; he isn’t wearing the iconic swords, and even the chain holding his medallion is hidden. The only real giveaway is his eyes, but even they’re darker than most, closer to golden brown than the cat-like yellow Jaskier’s come to know. He merely looks like a traveler, just with a few blades. Not all that unusual, especially this far south.

“I’ll need at least an hour to perform,” he says, and Aiden nods in agreement. “Once I’ve done a handful of sets, I’ll beg a break and see what I can find out from the gossip. After that, I’ll probably have to perform some more before everyone will be drunk enough for me to slip away. I’ll wander the estate a bit, see what I can find, then leave.”

“I’ll be outside the walls,” Aiden says. “In case anyone decides to follow you.”

“Hardly necessary,” Jaskier grins, “but I can tell I’m not talking you out of it, my friend, so do as you wish.”

Aiden smirks. “Well spotted,” he says, with a tip of his head. “Good luck.”

“Won’t need that, either,” Jaskier laughs. “You too.”

Aiden melts into the midday crowd, and Jaskier swings his lute forward to strum on it as he walks.

It’s a two-hour walk up to the Lord’s castle – though Jaskier would hardly call it that. It’s little more than a pompous mansion with a high stone gate. Much like the place Jaskier grew up in, when he wasn’t being sent off to school, and he frowns. Not the mindset he needs to be in for tonight, really.

So instead of focusing on the looming building, or the memories its silhouette dredges up, he puts together a setlist of songs in his head. It’ll change depending on the court’s reactions and requests, of course, but it’s always good to have a plan. And he’s already planned out the more covert part of his performance; now all he needs is to make sure the cover looks good enough to fool.

It will.

This isn’t the first time he’s done something like this, after all.

He finds himself smiling, thoughts of his childhood and less than desirable nobility pushed to the side in favor of much more pleasant memories.

The first half of his performance goes off without a hitch. The Lord himself is a dim-witted man, and the company he keeps isn’t much better; Jaskier mentally adjusts the time he’ll have to wait before he can escape to explore the estate.

He bows out of his last song, then ducks down into the milling crowd. It’s easy to melt into the background, for a bit, as he drinks and eats. And listens, of course.

There’s no less than six affairs going on in this estate alone; one belonging to the Lord’s wife herself, who is fucking a servant of unknown gender. Juicy, but not exactly the kind of information Jaskier is looking for, so he moves to another spot, nearer the tables where the real players in this overgrown chess game are sitting.

Half-hidden against a pillar, somewhat inconspicuous because he’s ditched his lute in a safe place to the side of the hall and the tankard he’s keeping in front of his face, he’s able to hear quite a bit.

Firstly, the other prominent members of this court know that the Lord has some sort of affliction; whether they know he’s a werewolf, Jaskier can’t tell, but they’re aware that something is off. They murmur in hushed tones about the days he disappears, about how he comes back ruffled and mad-looking; they whisper, even quieter, about the deaths of late.

It’s the first Jaskier hears of the killings in specifics. He’s disgusted and not shocked to find that the deaths are, so far, all threats to the Lord’s power. A mayor here, an advisor there. He hides the scowl that curls across his face behind a deep swig of ale. While interesting, though, and much more to the point than the blathering about affairs, none of what he hears here is of much more use to him. Not when he’s looking for a way for a Witcher to get into the court, kill the Lord, and get out.

His next decision is a little dangerous, but that’s hardly about to stop him. He goes around, picks up his lute, and chooses a place within eavesdropping distance of the Lord’s table instead. There’s less people, meaning he has to try harder to remain unnoticed, but he’s old hat at that. Hardly anyone ever suspects an empty-headed bard tuning his instrument.

The Lord is sitting with his wife, his new advisor, his daughter, and his three sons. Aside from that, at this table, there’s a handful of knights, all armed, and a few more courtiers, lower-ranked than the advisor at the Lord’s side. Jaskier knows he won’t hear as much gossip here, but what he might hear could be much more important.

And, as usual, he’s right.

Though not in the way he’d expected.

He looks up from his lute, for just a moment, and accidentally catches the eye of the Lord’s daughter. He smirks and gives flourishing bow; her cheeks tinge pink, and she looks away for a moment – toward her father – before she beckons him forward. He lets his face drop into surprise, even though he doesn’t feel it, and cautiously approaches.

“The bard Jaskier,” she says, shyly. Jaskier reaches out and takes the hand she offers, brushing his lips lightly across her knuckles. Her cheeks, still a little pink, deepen in color. Jaskier doesn’t bite back his smirk, and she goes properly red.

“My lady,” he replies, finally, and she titters.

He does love the nobility, but mostly because they’re all so easy. Thank the gods he unlearned the self-important arrogance that got beaten into him alongside his literacy.

“To what do I owe the pleasure of your conversation?” he asks, and lets go of her hand with calculated hesitation. She looks back toward her father for a moment and leans forward to murmur. Nothing is truly secret in a court, especially not one like this, but they can pretend.

“These lot are all so boring, aren’t they?” she whispers. Jaskier grins and tips his head in agreement. “I thought maybe you might have something more interesting to say.”

“Aye,” Jaskier nods. “I might. What kind of story would you like, my lady? Or maybe a song?”

She giggles again. “A song!” she says. “Just for me. But…later?”

There’s another glance toward her father, and then she tips her head toward an exit door in the back. Jaskier winks and bows again before he back away from the table.

As if on cue, the Lord’s voice booms above the general din. “Where did that bard go?” he asks.

“Here, my lord.” Jaskier returns to the table, though in front of the Lord himself now, and from a different direction than before. Not likely the Lord saw him, but he knows he can’t be too careful.

“Play,” the Lord demands. “I’m not paying you to chat.”

Jaskier bites back a snort and gives a stiff bow. Hardly paying me at all, he thinks, and returns to his previous post to do as he’s been told.

He plays for about half an hour before everyone seems to lose interest in music again. He plays one more song, just to be sure, then looks slyly over to the Lord’s daughter. She nods and stands, leaning close to her father to murmur something, while Jaskier slips out of the hall using the door she indicated earlier.

She meets him there barely a handful of minutes later, and he barely has time to put his lute aside before she kisses him. He takes it easily in stride – hardly the first time he’s done this, after all – and lets her lead him around a corner, into a hidden alcove.

“I hate these dinners,” she confesses when the kiss breaks. Jaskier hums his agreement. “I don’t have long, and I still want that private song. Meet me later?”

“How?” Jaskier asks. This is exactly what he’s here for. Fucking a beautiful woman is hardly a consequence for his actions, and he’ll take it.

“There’s a servant’s hall,” she answers. “There,” she points, “where he’s going.”

Jaskier turns and finds there’s a servant walking swiftly toward a small wooden door.

“It leads out to the grounds,” she explains. “Past the kitchens. There’s a little trail through the hedges, just a footpath, but easy enough to follow. There’s an entrance in the gates, for the gardener, hidden, but marked by some green paint. Father is tiring of you, I would suggest you leave now – come back later tonight. I’ll wait in the kitchens.”

Jaskier kisses her again, only partially to keep the ruse going. She is quite beautiful, even if she’s clearly got the same intelligence as her father. She lets him kiss her, for a long moment, then shoves him away, giggling. “Go,” she says. “I’ll see you later.”

“Of course, my lady.” Jaskier gives an exaggerated bow. “I can hardly wait.”

She giggles some more and swats at his shoulder, but kisses his cheek anyway, and disappears back into the dining hall.

Jaskier follows ten minutes later, as discreet as he can possibly manage, gets his payment from the same courtier who summoned him, and goes back out the way he came.

Aiden is waiting, exactly as he said.

“There’s a servant’s entrance,” he says, as soon as they’re out of earshot for the guards. “Around the back of the gates, apparently marked by green paint?”

Aiden quirks a brow.

“I don’t know,” Jaskier shrugs. “I’m to be using it to meet the Lord’s daughter later tonight. I’ll tell you more when I return.”

That makes the Witcher at his side snort. “I didn’t realize you were still warming the beds of small-time nobility as well, bard,” he teases. “But I thank you for the information, and I’ll be waiting for more after your tryst, rest assured.”

Jaskier grins. “Well, I am fucking three of the Wolves. I’m quite insatiable.”

Aiden outright laughs at that. They walk until they’re out of sight of the walls, then find a lonely copse of trees to sit amongst while they wait.

Jaskier’s rendezvous goes off without a hitch. He meets the Lord’s daughter in the kitchen, follows her to her rooms – takes careful note of the one she points out as her father’s – and plays her that song. He gets her off three times, claims something important to do in the morning, and leaves again.

He meets back up with Aiden in the village. Using a spare piece of parchment, he sketches a map of the estate, showing the Witcher how to get in and where the Lord’s bedroom is. By the time the sun is creeping over the horizon, Aiden has a plan of entry, attack, and exit; Jaskier has an extra payment for his work from Aiden’s own coin purse.

“Thank you,” Aiden says, and pulls him into a rough hug. Jaskier returns it easily, rather pleased at the concept of a Witcher who isn’t so afraid of platonic touch. His Wolves are improving, of course, but there’s something to be said for the Cats and their heightened emotions, Jaskier thinks.

Not that he’ll be saying that to his Wolves, obviously. He’s not actually suicidal, despite what others – namely Geralt – may imply.

For no real reason other than he has nowhere else to be, he stays in town for several days. He performs at the local taverns, spends some time composing, and does some needed repairs to his clothes and boots. All rather mundane, nothing terribly important.

He ends up very glad that he stayed here to do them instead of moving on and waiting til his next stop.

It’s commotion that wakes him. He groans and rolls out of the creaky inn bed to stumble to the window. Below, in the street, there’s a crush of people, all heading toward the town square. It has to be the whole population of the village, men and women and children all. He rubs a hand across his face and opens the window so he can properly hear what all the excitement is about.

The first words he hears, from a particularly excitable child, is hanging.

His blood runs cold.

Sure, it could be unrelated, but considering his entire life, it’s rather hard for him to believe in coincidences. He barely puts any thought into getting dressed, rushing into the first clothes he touches, grabbing his lute entirely because it makes it easier for him to get through crowds if he’s holding it. His dagger goes into its designated pocket.

There’s no one on the lower floor of the inn, of course, as he expected. Not even the innkeeper to manage guests. He uses that to his advantage, dodging through the back of the place, where guests definitely aren’t allowed, to get out of the building quicker. The alley he comes out in is deserted, too, which is an upside, because he has to stop to get his bearings. He runs to one end and gets swept up into the rush of people headed toward the square.

As soon as the main square comes into view, he starts fighting the press, separating from the people around him who had more or less carried him along. He fumbles out of the crowd and darts to the side; he needs to get around to the other side, where he can see a handful of soldiers. He needs to see their prisoner.

But then, as if the universe at large heard him thinking, he doesn’t need to.

“They’re hanging a Witcher!”

Fuck. He stumbles and has to lean against a building to steady himself.

His mind is racing. He can’t do anything. There’s literally nothing he can do, except – well….

He doesn’t actually know where the caravan is, but certainly, if he goes into the woods making enough noise, they’ll find him?

But then again, how can he know the caravan would even care? He doesn’t know if Cats have loyalty to one another – the anecdotes he’s been told say no, but the fact that the caravan exists contradicts that, doesn’t it?

He’s starting to sound desperate even in his own head. Fuck.

Pushing off of the wall, he keeps following the buildings around, until he’s nearer to the soldiers. At first, he can’t see their prisoner, between the bulk of too many soldiers, sunlight glinting off of their armor, but then – blue.

Fuck.

He needs a plan, and fast, but he’s terrible at proper planning, especially in a time crunch, never mind the sheer stress of the situation, and –

He decides it doesn’t matter. There’s only three options: Aiden ends up hanged, they both end up executed, or whatever he does works.

May as well bank on it working and go with whatever comes to mind. It’s worked out for him before.

Taking a deep breath, he situates his lute as if he’s about to play, and marches up to the soldiers will all the confidence in the world.

“Hello!” he says, loudly. There’s a bit of a fuss, behind the two soldiers he’s looking at; probably Aiden struggling. “I was wondering if I may ask a favor, my god sirs?”

One of the soldiers gives him an unimpressed look. Neither of them seem to recognize exactly who he is, which is ideal. “What do you want, bard.”

Jaskier thinks his lack of inflection sounds almost like Geralt, and bites back a hysterical laugh. “I want to talk to the Witcher.”

The second solider quirks a brow. “You,” he says, with slow emphasis, “want to talk…to the Witcher.”

“Yep!” Jaskier nods vehemently and lets the motion rock his whole body. The more flamboyant and empty-headed he seems, the less they’ll suspect him of anything except what he tells them. He can already see their opinions on his intelligence – and thus, the threat he poses – dropping. “I’m a bard, see – ” he holds up his lute, as if they can’t already see it, “ – and I thought maybe he’d have something interesting to tell me before he’s hanged. A lot of money in hopeless ballads, my friends!”

There’s a moment of silence as the two soldiers look at each other, a clear conversation happening in their silence. Jaskier keeps his dumb grin on his face and strums at his lute discordantly while he waits, thoughts still racing. He doesn’t know what he’ll say to Aiden, if they allow them to speak. He obviously can’t just blurt out questions about the caravan, or anything else – he has to do it in a code, but it’s not as if he and Aiden have any kind of established relationship. The soldiers take an unusually long time to not-discuss his request, and he’s beginning to lose his hold on his façade; he looks around at the crowd on the other side of the platform to distract himself.

Just in time to see the sun glint off of someone’s jewelry, silver-blue in the blinding light, and something nags at the back of his head. What is that? A memory. Something Geralt has told him…?

Water. The glint off the jewelry looked like water, and now he recalls it. A piece of advice Vesemir has always given his students, one Geralt told him once: when they're about to hang you, ask for a glass of water. You never know what might happen before they bring it.

Maybe, if Jaskier is really fucking lucky, Lambert will have told it to Aiden.

Worth a shot.

The soldiers finish their not-discussion and turn back to him. He meets their borderline confused gazes with his best empty-headed smile. It seems to do its job.

“Fine,” the first one says. “You won’t get anything about of him, we certainly couldn’t, but have at it, bard.”

They both step aside to reveal Aiden, on his knees, bound at the wrists and ankles and held physically by four other soldiers. The soldiers holding him look exhausted. Good, Jaskier thinks vindictively.

“What does the fucking bard want?” one of them asks.

“Stories!” Jaskier chirps happily. “So, Witcher, got any?”

Aiden gives him a murderous look. It’ll certainly make the soldiers think they don’t know each other, but it means nothing at all to Jaskier; is Aiden angry at him? Trying to tell him to cut his shit? Who knows, definitely not Jaskier, so he presses on.

“Actually, you look parched,” he continued, still just as cheery. “Say, has he asked for a glass of water?”

“What?” the soldier holding onto Aiden’s left shoulder asks. “Why?”

Jaskier shrugs. “He’s a man fated to die,” he says, but he’s not looking away from Aiden. The Witcher’s expression has changed just a little; he knows Jaskier is trying to tell him something, but he isn’t grasping what. Damnit. “No reason to deny him a simple glass of water, I figure.”

Something changes in Aiden’s eyes. A dawning understanding, Jaskier hopes, but he’s not holding his breath.

One of the soldiers huffs, derisive, and clearly prepares to speak, but Aiden interrupts.

“There’s a river just outside town,” he says. “If you’re so obsessed with water, bard, may I suggest drowning yourself in it?”

Jaskier ignores the insult. There’s something earnest in Aiden’s eyes; he’s trying to communicate something. River. He said there’s a river just outside town, and of course there is, it’s a town, and Jaskier did meet him in the woods the river cuts through, but –

It suddenly clicks. The caravan!

Jaskier fights to mold his expression into hurt and offense instead of grinning even wider. “Well,” he says, and thankfully he sounds properly put out. “I suppose that’s my answer.”

He backs out of the space of Aiden and the soldiers, then gives a half-hearted bow, and turns to walk away. He forces himself to walk slowly, just until the crowd swallows him up, and then he’s running. He has ten, maybe fifteen minutes – at most – to reach the caravan.

Luckily, no one seems suspicious of him as he charges through the slowly emptying streets and into the wilderness nearby. As soon as he’s out of the village, he hides his lute in a large bush and pushes himself faster, north, toward the river. They can’t be far; not if Aiden was caught in the Lord’s estate – Jaskier wonders if he’s being hanged for murder or just breaking and entering, but it’s hardly important right now. The caravan would have been waiting for him to return, surely.

He hears it before he sees anything. The creaking of wagons, the huffing of bored horses. It’s somewhere to his left, away from the riverbank he’s been following. He skids to a stop and turns, crashing uncaringly through the underbrush until he bursts into a clearing with three wagons, triple the horses, and quadruple the people.

Immediately, there’s two crossbows leveled at him and more swords than he cares to count. He throws his hands up but otherwise ignores the threat.

“It’s Aiden,” he pants, “he’s been caught. They’re going to hang him, in probably the next several minutes, so – ”

There’s a sudden flurry of movement, and then there’s only one sword left pointed at him. The Witcher at the other end is grizzled, clearly older, meaning he’s likely pushing a century and a half or more. In practically the blink of an eye, it’s only them left in the clearing.

“You’ll stay here until they return,” he says, with all the air of a man who is used to being obeyed, and Jaskier nods.

“Sounds good,” he agrees, even though it definitely doesn’t. Not like he’s got much of a choice now; he’s made his bed, as it is. “Although, if I may, a request?”

The Witcher quirks a brow.

“Or, well, a handful of them.”

His brow just raises further.

“Right, okay,” Jaskier sucks in a deep breath. He’s still out of breath from the run and the panic accompanying it. “Firstly, am I allowed to move? Because I think I need to sit down.”

There’s a beat, and the Witcher nods. His sword moves back, enough for Jaskier to comfortably collapse to the ground without worry of accidentally impaling himself.

“Great, thanks,” Jaskier gasps once he’s sitting, and immediately puts his head between his knees.

“You said you had more requests, bard.”

“Yeah,” Jaskier agrees. “Yeah, just – ” he forces his breathing into a normal pace, ignoring the way it hurts his chest, and once the pain has receded, looks up once more, “ – needed a moment. Okay. Water, if at all possible.”

The Witcher stares at him. Jaskier huffs, reaches into his doublet for his dagger, and tosses it to the dirt at the Witcher’s feet. “That’s the only weapon I have,” he says. “And I’m sure you can move much faster than me. I’m not a threat to you. You don’t have to keep your sword trained on me.”

A handful of Jaskier’s still-too-rapid heartbeats pass before the Witcher huffs and sheathes his sword. “Alright,” he says. He steps away, ducks into a wagon, and comes back with a waterskin. Jaskier takes it and downs half of it in one go.

“Sorry,” he mumbles, handing it back.

The Witcher just tosses the waterskin back into the wagon, perches on a nearby log, and looks at him pointedly.

“Ah, yes,” Jaskier nods. “Last one: your name?”

A pause. “Aiden trusts you.”

“Well, I suppose he does, to some extent,” Jaskier answers, even though it wasn’t a question. “He certainly has no reason to distrust me, I am a friend of – uh, well. I’m a friend of the Wolves, and I have a particular proclivity for finding, helping, and befriending Witchers.”

“Do you?”

Jaskier snorts. He can’t help it. “I assume you don’t know who I am, then,” he says. “I’m Jaskier, also known as Dandelion. Famous bard and Oxenfurt professor. Known, Continent-wide, as the White Wolf’s bard.”

Another pause, slightly longer this time. The Witcher lets out a low whistle, and then starts to hum the opening bars of Toss A Coin.

Jaskier grins. “Yeah, that’s me.”

“Huh.”

The Witcher just looks at him some more, and Jaskier looks back easily.

Finally, the Witcher seems to lose a certain amount of tension. “Guxart,” he murmurs.

Jaskier swears he’s heard that name. He puts it out of his mind for now. “Wonderful to meet you,” he says. “Wish it were under better circumstances.”

Guxart snorts. He stands and holds a hand out to Jaskier, pulling him back to his feet when Jaskier takes it.

“They’ll be back soon enough,” he says. “With Aiden or with his corpse. We’ll need to be ready. Help me.”

Jaskier nods. “Of course. Just tell me what to do.”

They quickly set everything up to move, hooking horses up to the wagons and packing away anything that was left out. It’s just as Jaskier is helping Guxart shift the blocks out from under the wagon wheels that there’s the sound of crashing through the underbrush.

Jaskier watches Guxart as he tips his head, nostrils flaring.

“It’s them,” he says, and they hurry through unblocking the rest of the wagon wheels. Just as they’re tossing the last brick away, a handful of the Witchers crash back into the clearing and start piling into the wagons. Jaskier dodges out of their way as quickly as he can.

Aiden follows soon enough, with the rest of them. “C’mon,” he shouts at Jaskier. “There’s a mob gathering, we’ve got to go.”

Jaskier looks over the lot of them, a rather large caravan, all things considered, and shakes his head. “No, you go. Which direction? I’ll head them off, give them the wrong directions.”

Aiden steps up to him, a wild look in his eyes. “Jaskier – ”

“If I don’t, they’ll catch you,” Jaskier interrupts. “With the wagons, you can’t move fast enough, and once you’re on the roads, you’ll be too easy to spot.”

Aiden heaves in a breath, but seems to surrender halfway through. “You’re right, but Jaskier – ”

“But nothing,” Jaskier snaps, and ducks around Aiden to look at the caravan as a whole. “Which direction are you going?”

There’s a small, tense pause. “North,” Guxart answers. “We’ll go north, then west.”

“Great!” Jaskier nods. “I’ll tell them something else. Actually, now that I’m thinking about it – someone punch me.”

“What?” Guxart and Aiden both ask it at once, but another one of the Witchers apparently doesn’t need the answer; a fist connects hard with the side of Jaskier’s cheek out of practically nowhere, sending him reeling. Aiden catches him.

“Karadin!”

“He asked.”

Jaskier laughs. “I did,” he says. “Alright, good. It’ll make it more believable that I was attacked instead of an accomplice. Alright, alright. Go, I’ve got a mob to misdirect.”

He pushes out of Aiden’s arms and takes off toward the village. Just before he’s out of earshot of the clearing, he hears Guxart shout his name.

“Jaskier!”

He stops and turns. The elder Witcher is several feet behind him, something in his hand.

“Don’t get killed, bard!”

It’s his dagger. Jaskier catches it by the hilt as it soars toward him and laughs.

“Right! Go!” He slips the dagger back into his pocket, turns back around and picks up at a run.

Once again, he’s lucky; the mob has formed by now, but they’re just reaching the edge of the trees when Jaskier bursts out of them. The villagers nearly miss him, but a soldier on a horse spots him. “Hey! You there!”

Jaskier slips into his act well. It’s one he’s played plenty of times before. “They attacked me!” he wails, falling to his knees in front of the halted mob. “Dragged me to the woods, but I escaped,” never mind how, they’ll pull together their own story later, he's sure.

“Where did they go?” the soldier demands.

“They’re headed east,” Jaskier pants, “I heard one of them mention something about Ellander.”

The soldier stares him down for a long moment, and Jaskier snaps.

“Are you just going to stare at me, or are you going to try and catch the godsforsaken Witchers!” he shouts, and several of the villagers near him flinch.

The soldier scowls, but finally looks away. “Come on!” he shouts, and kicks his horse. The mob follows him easily enough.

As soon as they’re a sufficient distance away, Jaskier stumbles to his feet and runs back to the bush he stashed his lute in. Ducking around behind it, he collapses on to his back and laughs.

And laughs, and laughs.

What a fucking day. What a fucking week.

He wonders if Geralt and the others will believe this story. Probably not.