Chapter Text
“Watch where you’re going!”
The angry voice and strong shoulder colliding with his own is what finally pulled Jaskier back to himself from where he’d been lost in his thoughts looking around the docks of Pont Vanis. The sea spray on the breeze blew his lengthening fringe into his eyes as he murmured an apology and stepped to the side, once again glancing around. The docks were full of a lively hustle and bustle as workers and traders went about their day, loading and unloading the cargo and passengers. The air was filled with a steady din from the conversations and shouts of the people milling about, the cry of the gulls overhead, the lapping of the waves against the docks and shore, and the creaking and clanking of barrels and goods be moved about.
Jaskier wasn't surprised to find that after the events on the mountain in Caingorn his feet had carried him to the coast. Less surprised to find himself outside the walls of the city and down on the docks.
He'd been trying to remove himself as far as he could and perhaps the opportunity had arisen to take himself even further away from-
Well. Further away.
Most of the ships appeared to be the small, nimble ships that ran the coast but one stood tall above the rest. Three masts raising higher than those around it. Clearly built for distance, not speed.
"You fine gentleman seem to be preparing for quite the journey," Jaskier remarked to the crewmen moving crates and barrels toward the ship. "And where are we off to? Novigrad? Skellige? Further south?"
The murmurs of Nilfgaard were certainly concerning, and Jaskier had heard more and more stories corroborating what the dwarf Yarpen had said on the mountain. Worrisome to be certain, but really who was one bard in the grand scheme of things?
The ship at the dock being loaded looked new, the plaque on the stern that proclaimed its name was shined to a high gloss and edged in gleaming silver.
The Black Wing.
How dramatic.
His question was met with apathetic sounds from several of the crewmen milling about but one looked up and met his eye.
"We’re not headed anywhere. This here's an expedition ship, bard. Probably a one way trip."
"And a doomed one at that," another man shouted with a laugh.
There was some grumbling at that comment from the other crew, though they didn’t seem upset. Excited about the expedition, resigned that they would almost certainly never return.
For a moment, Jaskier was taken aback by the blunt statement.
"And…and you're still going?" He asked, uncertain of the way the idea of the unknown piqued his interest. Perhaps it was the lack of something to stay for.
"Well, aye. Someone's got to be the first to know what's out there," the first man replied, with a hint of a grin. “We’ll be sailing as far west across the ocean as we can.” He stepped closer to Jaskier and lowered his voice. “But he’s not wrong, bard. There’s no telling how far the sea stretches. We may run out of provisions before we see anything other than blue sea and sky. Or perhaps madness will take us first.”
Jaskier bit his lip looking at the ship being loaded, out beyond it to the line where sea met sky, then glanced back over his shoulder to where Pont Vanis was tucked safely behind high walls, protected from the battering of the unpredictable waters. The summer capital of Kovir and Poviss was bustling behind the walls, the sounds of the city audible even against the sound of the port and the sea.
"You wouldn't, ah, have room for one more?"
The crewman who'd claimed the expedition a one way journey paused in his action and looked again at Jaskier, his expression somewhere between concern and disdain. He met Jaskier’s gaze for a long moment, as though searching for something.
"This isn't a game, son. We've made our peace that we're unlikely to return. You can't make this decision lightly."
If life could give me one blessing, it would be to take you off my hands!
Perhaps it was a bit spur of the moment, but as far as Jaskier was concerned his future had ceased to exist the moment he had left Caingorn alone. He had no plans on where to go or what to do next. And maybe, maybe he shouldn't jump aboard a (likely doomed) ship in his current emotional state, but the lure of adventure, entwined with the threat of death and heroics and heartbreak had always motivated him, from leaving his home and title in Lettenhove to pursue the life of a wandering bard to throwing his lot in with a witcher for two decades.
It felt like Destiny.
Besides, he would certainly be off Geralt's hands if he was off the Continent. His songs would live on. Geralt would live on. Calanthe wouldn’t let anything happen to Pavetta’s child. He would miss the darling girl and their yearly visit though. Would miss seeing her light up to his music on her nameday each year.
Jaskier slowly shook his head and spread his arms, his pack and lute case peeking out from behind him.
"All I have is on me, and I'm the only one I need to make peace with."
Liar. He was decidedly not thinking of the witcher. Of Lettenhove. Of Oxenfurt.
"So do you have room for one more or not?"
The man's expression didn't shift, the purse of his lips making it clear that he thought Jaskier was making a hasty decision, yet resigned that he wouldn’t talk the other man out of it.
"Aye, I suppose we could use another hand. Come with me and I'll take ye to the cap'n."
"Excellent! Now, I admit I've never been part of a crew before, but I'm a quick study, rest assured. And I do so know how to keep spirits up!"
Jaskier's (forced) cheerful chatter followed all the way along the dock to the ship, commenting and questioning everything in his field of vision. The Captain agreed to bring him aboard, told him the Bosun would show him the ropes and that while learning he was still expected to pull his weight on board. Jaskier forced himself to focus on the ship, on the task at hand, on the open waters stretching far before them. And not once until they had set sail and were far enough from land to see anything but open water did he dare look back again.
Weeks passed as The Black Wing sailed across the open seas and Jaskier was quick to learn, just as he promised. The man he talked to on the docks, Paluba, was in fact the Bosun of the ship and a fine teacher for a greenhorn like Jaskier. He learned knots which he tied and untied them over and over until his fingers bled. He could soon name every piece and part of the ship from the mast to the rudder and from stern to bow, sometimes mumbling them as if they were lyrics to a song. The Bosun was in some ways relentless when it came to imparting his knowledge, but the physical and mental exhaustion of learning allowed Jaskier to fall into a dreamless sleep night after night.
He learned how to travel by stars at night and by the position of the sun by day from Vrana, who spent most of his time in the crow’s nest, keeping his eyes on the horizon for a sign of anything and everything.
Jaskier was thrilled to find camaraderie with the crew, who all had their own knowledge to share with the bard.
And beyond sailing he learned. From the boisterous, failed thief Kradziej who could pick a lock in seconds (Jaskier was improving, but it took a bit of concentration) to the intimidating but gentle chef Sporak who had once worked for Queen Calanthe in Cintra and insisted salt could fix anything.
"Aye," he said one night after Jaskier had played the Fishmonger's Daughter for the crew, "I remember the betrothal feast well. Never seen anything like it all my days and I doubt I will ever again. You put on quite a show, bard. So did Pavetta though, eh?" He laughed.
He learned bawdy sailing songs and shanties, and wrote his own to pass the time. He shared stories of his adventures with Geralt, and heard the crew’s stories in kind. (Kradziej laughed so hard he cried the first time Jaskier sang his song.)
“A pocket he tried to pick,
But his fingers couldn’t stick!
Across the stone the coins they scatter
Alerting the guard with quite the clatter!”
“I got out of that one, though!” the once thief protested with a laugh. “Sweet talked the guards right, I did.”
He even learned to read the changes in the weather as it rolled across the endless horizon and had been doing well predicting changes in the wind.
Which is why it was such a surprise when the storm came out of nowhere. One moment fair winds and clear skies and the next tumultuous waves, wind howling seemingly from all directions, pouring rain, and lightning blazing across the sky.
Jaskier ran along the rain soaked deck with the rest of the crew, tying down ropes and securing what they could. The howl of the storm made it almost impossible to discern the orders being shouted by the Bosun, but weeks aboard the ship made the actions second nature, even if the circumstances were usually less perilous.
He'd nearly finished the tie he was working on when an unearthly sound filled the air and he looked up, expecting to see dark water and dark skies, lit only by lightning.
Instead, the world seemed to be swirling around him, the dark of the sea and sky indiscernible from each other and streaked with gleaming light in bright white and dark violet. The roaring was growing louder as shouting overlapped from all around him.
"What is that?"
"What in Oblivion is that?"
"Bard! Time's up, off the deck!"
"Dovahkiin, it is time."
"Bard!"
"Sonaan!"
"You need to move now!"
"DOV TIID NU!"
Jaskier turned to look at Paluba yelling for him, away from the world swirling, but everything around him was a vortex of black, of violet, of white light.
No. He was the white light. He tried to look at his hands, blinded by the strength of the glow burning beneath them and spreading up his arms.
The roaring was even louder now, nearer. It was above him, beneath him, within him all at once.
The dark swirl seemed to intensify and begin closing in on him.
Jaskier was falling, and falling, and falling and the world went black all at once.
And then. A voice, echoing through the abyss.
"Dovahkiin. Hi lost daal."
Jaskier didn’t know how long he floated in the dark after that, but the sound of the wind and birdsong on the air forced him to open his eyes.
The black turned into a hazy gray, the cool spray into a cold wind, and blinking away the darkness in his vision, Jaskier looked blearily around at three men, all with their hands tied. His own hands were bound in front of him too. They were rolling along in the back of a wagon, surrounded by an unfamiliar landscape of mountains and snow.
What the fuck. Jaskier blinked long and slow, wondering if this was a dream.
"Hey you, you're finally awake."
At the stranger’s voice, Jaskier's eyes snapped open fully and it was only through his time tagging along with Geralt on his hunts that permitted him to assess the situation first and not immediately panic.
Nothing had changed from his first bleary glance around.
He was no longer on the ship. He was, in fact, sitting with his hands bound in the back of a cart that was rolling its way through snowy terrain, under cloudy skies patched with bright crystal blue. Jaskier closed his eyes tightly and took a deep breath, releasing it slowly, before opening his eyes again.
Still bound. Still in a cart. Fuck. He turned his head toward the voice that had greeted him.
"You were trying to cross the border right?"
Jaskier glanced at the man still speaking to him, then at the two others in the wagon. One was dressed in rags, the other in finery. The latter was gagged.
He didn’t hear the rest of the stranger’s words, instead electing to direct his gaze behind the man to watch the passing terrain for anything recognizable, anything to give him a hint of where he was and how he’d gotten there.
Because he certainly hadn’t been trying to cross any borders.
There was nothing to give him a clue as to where he could possibly be though, just snow covered trees and wild, mountainous terrain as far as he could see.
He breathed slowly through his nose, deep breaths in for three counts and out for three counts, while he tried to calmly sort out his thoughts.
There had been a storm on the Black Wing. He’d been on the deck, helping finish tie everything down when the thunder had turned into a roar and then-
Nothing. It was dark until he opened his eyes here, in this cart. With his hands tied tight and dressed in rags.
The cart driver's shout pulled him out of his thoughts.
"Shut up back there!"
Jaskier watched the other men continue to converse but the conversation made less and less sense and his anxiety only continued to grow.
The wagon rumbled to a stop in the middle of a stone walled village. There were others dressed like the soldier in the cart with him, all bound and waiting, looking impassively at a chopping block.
Jaskier blanched and his breath caught in his throat, still unable to form words to make any sense of this strange situation. He was only half aware as they jumped out of the cart and a woman in red and silver armor began yelling, a man by her side naming the others in the cart.
Ulfric Stormcloak, the gagged king. Ralof, the soldier who had spoken so calmly. Lokir, the horse thief.
He came back to full awareness when the thief tried to run and was brought down swiftly by a nearby guard with a well-placed arrow.
"Anyone else feel like running?" The woman asked the assembled prisoners snidely.
The man at her side was looking at Jaskier.
"Wait, you there. Step forward. Who are you?"
"J-Jaskier," his voice finally worked to deliver his name, the name he was known by, but his throat clenched at any other words or explanation.
The red-garbed soldier frowned at him.
"You picked a bad time to come home to Skyrim, kinsman."
He turned to the woman and Jaskier could only stare. Home was Lettenhove, was Oxenfurt, and roads all over The Continent. Not here. Not this cold, unwelcoming wilderness.
"I'm sorry." And perhaps worst of all, he truly sounded like he was. "At least you'll die here in your homeland. Follow the Captain, prisoner."
His homeland? This wasn’t his homeland. Jaskier had never heard of a Skyrim, didn’t understand these strange conversations about Stormcloaks and Imperials. He didn’t know how he gotten to this place or why he was about to die.
The general who had met them at the gate addressed and insulted the gagged king, with words Jaskier again only half heard, eyes fixed ahead on the chopping block.
A strange roar filled the air. One that was familiar. As though Jaskier had heard it before. Recently.
"What was that?" The soldier who had apologized for Jaskier's bad luck looked to the sky in wonder at the sound echoing off the mountains.
"It's nothing. Carry on." The general replied curtly, with a look at the captain. She gestured to a woman in plain robes nearby, who stepped forward and raised her arms to perform what sounded like a funeral rite.
One of the Stormcloaks stepped forward instead.
"For the love of Talos, shut up and let's get this over with."
The bound soldier took his position, taunting his executioner until the axe came down. The crowd seemed to come alive at last.
"You Imperial bastards!"
"Justice!"
"Death to the Stormcloaks!"
"As fearless in death as he was in life," the man who'd been beside him in the wagon stated firmly.
"Next, the Nord in the rags!" The woman called.
It took Jaskier a moment, and a rough shove from behind, to realize they were looking at him. They meant him. He was next for the block.
The same roar filled the air. Louder. Closer than before.
"There it is again. Did you hear that?"
"I said, next prisoner."
The man once again looked at Jaskier with pity in his eyes, but did as he was told.
"To the block, prisoner. Nice and easy."
What choice did Jaskier have but to follow? His entire being numb, still wondering if this wasn't some bizarre dream from drowning. A dream of dying, to let him know he'd died aboard The Black Wing.
If life could give me one blessing, it would be to take you off my hands.
Well, Jaskier thought wryly, dropping to his knees next to the still warm body of the Stormcloak. You've got your blessing, Geralt.
Gingerly placing his head on the block, the blood on it seeping into his skin, Jaskier watched the headsman ready his axe. He resolved himself to watch until the bitter end, like Geralt had faced down Filavandrel at the Edge of the World once, so long ago.
A shadow passed overhead and the general's voice was suddenly shouting.
"What in Oblivion is that?"
There was a ringing in Jaskier's ears.
And inside of him, deep down, like the beat of his heart, a rumble of thunder in a chant he could almost make out if-
"-do you see?"
"Dragon!"
"Zu'u lost daal!"
The shadow landed on the stone tower, Jaskier looking right up at the monstrous beast as it descended from the sky with a shout that shook the world.
A dragon. It was a dragon. But unlike Borch and the green in the cave who were both smooth lines and glittering scales and a strangely beautiful sight to behold, this dragon was the stuff of nightmares, the horror stories told to children to convince them to be behave.
Red eyes, wickedly spiked spines and scales, curving horns, claws on its wings, and a maw of serrated teeth.
Enormous, black wings, spread wide.
The dragon seemed to look right at him, laying there, waiting for his death.
And something inside Jaskier shifted.