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“Yen, you’ll rub your fingers raw if you shoot any more arrows into that poor tree,” Triss admonished her as she joined her near the Great Oak of Sherwood. “God knows you’re the best archer in the land already—one night of rest won’t kill you.”
Yennefer breathed out slowly and let her arrow fly from where it was drawn, zipping through the air and embedding itself firmly in a knot of wood two paces above the ground, exactly where her last arrow had struck. And the one before. And the one before that.
Yes, she wasn’t so humble as to deny it—she was surely the best archer in the land, and took great pride in admitting it. But the knowledge wasn’t enough to shake the fear that had lodged itself deep in her bones, a fear of what if. What if she wasn’t good enough? What if she lost the one thing that mattered most to her in the world?
“It won’t kill me, but it will surely kill him if I don’t win the competition tomorrow,” she answered, Triss following as she went to retrieve her arrows. “I won’t risk it.”
“But you’ll risk straining your muscles? Bruising your fingertips? Yen, you know better. Now come on, put your bow down for the night, and join us around the fire. Geralt took down a deer earlier—enough to feed the entire company for a week.”
Damn Triss. Venison was Yennefer’s favorite, and Triss knew that, and played it to her advantage. Yennefer’s stomach rumbled, starved after a day with little food on account of nerves, and she sighed. “And just how insufferably proud has he been?” She could picture it now—the self-satisfied smirk he would be wearing, the way he would hold himself like a hunting dog posturing over its kill.
“Oh, the worst,” Triss laughed.
Despite Geralt’s bragging over dinner, and despite the looming archery competition hanging over her like a cloud, the meal was a hearty affair. The food and the wine flowed plenty as they gathered around the fire, sharing in good company.
Yennefer had done well choosing her company, she knew. People of all ages, of all backgrounds, but who all shared the same desire—steal from the rich, give to the poor, live life merrily. Robin Hood and her Band of Merry Men, they called them—never mind that they weren’t all men—by her self-proclaimed profession, robber, and the hood she wore to cover her infamous raven locks.
Though it wouldn’t be easy to tell by looking at the reveling folk, tensions were high as of late. The sheriff of Nottingham was raising taxes to astronomical heights, and more and more keenly she was feeling the pleas of the commonfolk.
Which was part of the reason the archery competition tomorrow was so important—the winner would be paid a purse of five thousand crowns, enough to feed the entire town for a week.
But, selfishly, privately, even more important to her was the other half of the promised prize—the sheriff’s son’s hand in marriage.
Julian of Nottingham, he was officially called, though to friends—and lovers—he was Jaskier, aspiring bard. They had met when only children—he’d pulled her hair, and she’d pushed him into the mud, and a lifelong rivalry had been born, only for their contentious relationship to blossom into something more in young adulthood.
But it had been cut short when she’d run away, stifled by poverty and the lustful stares of the village men. She’d wanted no part in that life, and had soon found her ilk—the people who would form her company, Triss, Geralt, Renfri, a dozen others who had all been wronged, and who had vowed to fight back, to make the world a better place.
She had always regretted leaving so suddenly, abandoning Jaskier just as she abandoned her former life. She’d thought it not to be, their fates written apart by a cruel society, and had resigned herself to the fact—until word had reached her from Nottingham, tales of the sheriff’s increasing cruelty, tales of his son’s worsening condition. She had so far been unable to so much as approach the sheriff’s house, though, his guard always heightened in his paranoia.
But the archery competition provided the perfect opportunity to reconcile the stories with Jaskier’s true condition, as well as providing the perfect out should he need it.
“Yen?” Triss called, breaking Yennefer from her reverie, and she realized that she’d been asked a question.
“Sorry. What?”
“I said, what’s the plan for tomorrow?” Triss repeated. Conversations quieted as the company waited for her to answer, all listening intently to their leader.
“Well, if all goes to plan, we don’t need a plan,” Yennefer began. “Get in, win the competition, claim the prize and get out before anyone is recognized and arrested.”
“When have things ever gone to plan?” Renfri asked wryly. Yennefer quirked her lips in a half-smile.
“True. The backup plan, should we need it, is to beat a hasty retreat. We could be easily trapped in the sheriff’s walled estate, and with everyone armed with bows and arrows, we would be fish in a barrel. Retreat, don’t get caught in a fight if you can avoid it, and leave no one behind. We’re there to deceive, not to fight. Got it?” she instructed, leveling each of them with a severe look.
She received nods in turn, and nodding herself, satisfied in the knowledge that, though they might be foolhardy at times, they would listen to her when the time came.
As the fire died down and people slowly drifted off to their beds, Yennefer stayed awake, staring up at the night sky, thick with stars. A memory surfaced: her and Jaskier, teens, having snuck out to meet in the orchard. They climbed the peach trees with simian ease, long limbs flexible in their youth, and spent the long dark hours tracing patterns in the stars.
That night had been the first time she’d kissed him.
The taste and perfume of peaches had lingered on her lips long after they’d bade each other goodnight and returned home—even now, she could recall the sensation.
She shook her head to dispel the thought and doused the last of the embers. She needed to at least try to sleep before the competition in the morning.
“Archers, at the ready!” the herald announced, and twenty archers in unison drew their bows. “Aim…” he continued. Yennefer took a deep breath. “Fire!”
Her arrow flew true, despite her irrational fear that it wouldn’t. Exactly in the center—she was surely guaranteed a spot in the next round.
The sheriff descended from his raised platform to inspect the targets, and ruled eight archers out of the competition. Easy—almost one half beaten already. The targets were moved farther away in preparation for the next round—though still close enough for her to easily hit dead center.
“Ready… aim… fire!” Again, she let her arrow loose, though at the last second, her wrist twitched, sending it astray. She cursed—how could she be so careless?
But luckily, thank the stars, it wasn’t enough to disqualify her. Another four archers left the field, the targets were moved even further, and the third round passed much the same, until there were only four archers remaining.
“With the distance contest concluded, we shall move onto the accuracy portion of the competition!” the herald announced. This was where the real test would begin—how she would measure up directly against her competitors. “First—Istredd of Aedd Gynvael.”
Istredd stepped into position and fired off three shots—two inches left of center, three inches right of center, and one inch above center. Not bad—though not great, either. The next archer, Marilka of Blaviken, performed slightly better, and knocked Istredd out of the competition.
“Duny, Urcheon of Erlenwald, take your turn!” the herald instructed—one, two, three arrows, hitting dead center. Yennefer’s jaw dropped. Even on her best days, such a feat was rare.
“An impressive show!” the herald crowed. “So impressive, in fact, that the sheriff shall allow you to join him and his son in a seat of honor upon the stage as your remaining competitor is judged!”
The urcheon strutted up with pride, though Yennefer barely even noticed him, as at that moment, Jaskier emerged from the wings to take a seat next to his father.
She gasped upon seeing him. He looked nothing like she’d imagined—he was dressed finely, that much was true, in bright silks and glittering jewelry. But his face was gaunt, his skin waxy pale and his eyes sunken, none of the bright spark she remembered in them.
He gave a glittering smile to Duny, though it was false, flashy, full of no humor or pleasure. “My lord,” he murmured. “I find myself highly impressed by your aim.”
Yennefer needed to find out more. She needed to win a spot at his side—and she needed a distraction so that she could talk to him unobserved. She motioned Triss over under the guise of summoning more arrows.
“I need a distraction,” she breathed in Triss’ ear as she fiddled with the quiver on Yennefer’s back. “After I go up on stage—I need to talk to the young lord.”
“On it,” Triss promised, and then withdrew back to where the rest of the company stood with the audience. Yennefer flexed her fingers and drew an arrow.
“The Mysterious Challenger takes their turn! What skills have they, what need have they to hide their face?” the herald crowed, drumming up interest from the crowd. Murmurs rose, but Yennefer blocked it all out.
Thwick. The arrow flew true—dead center, clustered tightly with Duny’s arrows. A moment of silence, and then a deafening cheer rose from the crowd. Yennefer smiled.
“A stranger fit to match the Urcheon! A rival for the young lord’s attentions! Dear stranger, can you repeat the feat?” the herald shouted. Jaskier, who had been slouching in his chair, sat up with interest.
Thock. Another arrow hit the target—bullseye, knocking free another arrow. The cheers, if possible, were even louder this time. She couldn’t even hear the herald over the din. She breathed in, drew her bow, breathed out, and let her final arrow fly.
Crack! Wood splintered, shards flying everywhere, as her last arrow split Duny’s in two, right down the middle. The crowd rushed her, pushing, pulling, raucous in their excitement as they ferried her towards the stage. She kept a tight hold on her hood the whole time, until she found her feet being set on solid wood, the crowd dispersing, and Jaskier approaching her.
Duny was nowhere to be found—he’d probably slunk off somewhere in his defeat. For a moment, it was only the two of them, violet eyes staring into cornflower blue, like they had so many times in their youth.
“Yennefer,” he breathed, the first spark of life flaring in his face.
“Are you well?” she demanded. There was no time to waste.
“What are you doing here?” he asked. “You—you can’t be here, they’ll have you arrested—” he hissed, eyes darting back and forth to the guards stationed throughout the grounds.
“I came for you, you ungrateful sod,” she snapped, then softened. “Jaskier, what happened?”
His face grew hard. “You left,” he answered coldly. “Isn’t that enough?”
A familiar pang of regret, one that she hadn’t thought could hurt her anymore. “Not like this,” she said, reaching up a hand to his pale face. “What did he do to you?”
Before he could answer, the sheriff himself appeared, a hefty bag of coin in one hand a crown of laurels in the other. “Our champion!” he boomed, and the crowd quieted. “Reveal yourself, mysterious stranger, and claim your prize.”
Here it was—the make-or-break moment she’d been anticipating. She threw back her hood, letting her raven curls cascade freely to gasps from the crowd.
“My prize, please, my good man,” she called out, when he made no move. “I’ve won five thousand crowns, according to your rules, as well as your son’s hand in marriage.”
“The rules say nothing of a criminal and a cheat,” he hissed. “Guards! Arrest this woman and her compatriots on counts of burglary, theft, and conspiracy!”
“Yennefer, go!” Jaskier shouted, placing himself in between her and his father. “Quickly!”
“I’m not leaving without my prize,” she growled, though her eyes darted to the guards approaching. She had to think quickly. “Triss! That distraction, now!”
All of the sudden, guards began to fall one by one, arrows sprouting out of their backs, blood frothing on their lips. Shit. They were in for a fight now. She tugged Jaskier’s arm, yanking him off the stage and towards the gates. The rest of the company was beating a hasty retreat as well, every so often pausing to loose another arrow in a guard’s direction. But they were firing back, arrows flying left and right—it was a miracle none of her company had been hit yet.
“Yennefer—Yen, wait—” Jaskier wheezed, out of breath.
“Wait for what? To be thrown in jail? To be riddled with arrows?” she bit out, not stopping. But he stumbled and stopped, his arm tearing out of her grasp, and she whirled on him, beyond angry and almost tempted to just leave him if he was going to be so unreasonable.
But he hadn’t stopped out of stubbornness, or fear, or anything else of the sort—no, there was an arrow embedded in his thigh, blood dripping sluggishly from the wound, staining his pretty silks. “No!” she yelled, dropping to her knees beside him.
“Go,” he demanded, pushing insistently at her shoulders. She wouldn’t be budged. “Just leave me! I’ll be fine! You, on the other hand, are looking at spending the rest of your life in prison—if they don’t just execute you first!”
“I said I’m not leaving without my prize,” she growled, hooking her arms around his back and legs, careful to avoid the arrow. She hoisted him up, and he yelped and threw his arms around her neck.
“What are you doing?” he squeaked, as she continued to beat a hasty retreat, Renfri coming to flank her. She ignored Jaskier and nodded her thanks to Renfri, and together, they made it through the gates and fled into the woods.
As they ran back to their camp in Sherwood Forest, Jaskier’s grip grew scarily weak, his protests steadily quieter, and Yennefer looked down in alarm to see his eyes at half-mast, his face worryingly grey. “We have to get him to Triss,” Renfri said, eyeing him like a lynx would eye its prey.
“I know,” Yennefer snapped, and picked up the pace, despite how her arms and legs were screaming at her to stop. They reached the camp in short order, and Yennefer was quick to lie him on Triss’ cot in her tent.
“Shit,” Triss cursed when she saw the arrow in his thigh. “Renfri, hold his legs. Yennefer, his arms. This will hurt.” She addressed the last part to Jaskier, who paled and clenched his fists, but nodded.
Yennefer took his hands, soothing them from the fists he’d formed, urging him to instead cling to her. “Jaskier, look at me,” she instructed. “Remember the orchard?”
He nodded, though his face was creased in confusion. “What about it?” he rasped. At that moment, Triss yanked the arrow out, and he let out a thin scream, his legs trying and failing to thrash, his hands clenching tight around Yennefer’s.
“Tell me about it,” she urged, trying to distract him. “Remember the peaches?”
His eyes were shut tightly in pain, but he nodded. “We ate so damn many,” he laughed. “I thought I was going to be sick.”
“You always did have a taste for sweet things,” Yennefer remembered.
“Had a taste for you,” he quipped, and yes, there was that familiar ill-timed humor.
“Really? There’s a gaping hole in your leg, and you’re flirting? Terribly, I might add.” It was surprisingly easy to fall back into their old banter.
“Have to keep my mind off it, you know how it is,” he responded, grinning. “You know what might distract me even more?”
“Do I want to know?” she answered dryly.
“A kiss from the most beautiful maiden in the land.”
“Should I feel insulted?” Triss asked from where she was wrapping a bandage around his thigh.
“My fair lady, I would never dare to impugn your honor so,” Jaskier rushed to assure her. Triss hmmed and finished tying off the bandage. “It is only that my heart beats so ardently for Yennefer, that I find myself blinded by her beauty.”
“I’ll leave you to your wooing, then,” Triss laughed, and left the tent, Renfri following in her wake, nose wrinkled faintly in disgust at Jaskier’s dramatics. Finally, they were alone, for the first time in years.
“Why did you do it?” Jaskier asked, thumbs rubbing idly over the backs of Yennefer’s hands. She’d forgotten they were still entwined, though she felt no urge to pull away.
“I never wanted to leave you,” she confessed, her deepest secret springing forth under his scrutiny. “I won’t say I’m sorry—I’ve done too much good to regret it—but I do wish it could have gone differently. I wish…” she trailed off. “I hope you can forgive me for leaving you to that life.”
“There’s nothing to forgive,” he answered immediately. “Well, perhaps the gaping hole in my leg, but seeing as it’s only technically your fault, I suppose I can let it go.”
Yennefer felt herself smiling, helpless to stop it. God, it was so like how it used to be. “You’re sure? You don’t want something in repayment? A kiss, perhaps?”
“I never said that,” he jumped to correct her. “In fact, I think a kiss would do wonders for my constitution. You know. Good for the humors, good the healing, et cetera.”
“Oh, shut up,” she laughed, then leant down to kiss him. Their lips slotted together perfectly, just as they always had. He kissed back eagerly, and whined for more when she pulled away. “No, you need to rest. Can’t go getting all riled up.”
“Oh, it’s entirely too late for that,” he admitted, shameless.
“Get some sleep,” she huffed. “There will be time enough for more.”
“Oh, alright,” he grumbled, shifting down in the cot to get comfortable. In a rare show of care, she made sure the blanket was covering him just so—and by the time she had done that, his breathing had evened out and he had fallen asleep.
She left him to sleep, and to recover, already looking forward to the days ahead that he would fill.