Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Jaskier sat at a safe distance from the mellow fire. He could see Geralt feed Roach an apple as she nuzzled against him. He had already fed Pegasus, who stood quietly. He was now sitting, nestled in the roots of a nearby tree. Milva was supposed to join them two villages to the south with some resources and supplies, while they travelled through swamps and forests to avoid any unwanted attention. He mindlessly fiddled with his lute, urging his brain to come up with some melodies. Sooner or later, he was going to have to perform and sing songs, to support them financially and to create good spirits for them amongst the local villagers. But it seemed like it was not going to happen today.

He was too tired today. All three of them had been travelling for weeks on end in search of Ciri after the whole debacle at Aretuza. Things were still shaken up across the continent, with distrust and betrayal sullying every interaction. Their distrust was evident in the way mothers would usher their children inside, or the way the people would keep a watch behind cracked windows. The entire Continent seemed to be on the edge with each other.

And ofcourse they were smack in the middle of it. With Ciri’s disappearance and Geralt’s near death experience, the Universe seemed to be hell bent on putting them through misery for no good reason. Even thinking about how close the Witcher came to death was enough for Jaskier to feel a sharp chill run down his spine. For the hair on his skin to raise.

Ever since he began travelling with Geralt, it became quite apparent to him that the Witcher was quite strong. And not just strong, but quite adept at his skills. In his initial days, he would be very worried about the monsters Geralt slayed and the injuries he got. But over time, looking at his refined skills and the sheer amount of strength he possessed, Jaskier worried less. Of course, he still worried quite a bit, but he always believed in the cornerstone of his heart, that no actual harm would ever befall the Witcher. That he would get out of everything unscathed. After all, there was space for only one damsel in distress, and he filled out the spot quite nicely.

Geralt’s injuries had been quite a discerning shock to him. He had been terrified. Terrified that every single exhale might be his last, that every single incoherent syllable may be the last one or that every single time his eyes closed they would never open. Every once in a while, Jaskier would keep his hand on Geralt’s chest to feel his heart beating, just to make sure he was holding on.

Somehow, thank the gods, Geralt had managed to pull through. He had managed to get himself out in a single piece. Barely hanging by a thread, but he made it. And Jaskier could not be happier. He watched as Geralt sat down, on one of the bed rolls, beside him. He watched, as Geralt grimaced as he tried to relax his injured leg. Even if he was back on his feet, he was still quite unsteady. All the riding and the walking had definitely not been helpful in recuperation of his leg. He made a quick mental note to look for some healer in the next town to get something for Geralt. They were running out of supplies and Geralt needed to be in his best condition if they were even going to try to rescue Ciri.

“Jaskier”, Geralt called out softly, jolting him out of his musings. He put his lute down on the soft grass and looked up to see the witcher. His yellow eyes looked softer in the warmth of the fire.

“Yes?” He answered. Worry plucked at his heart. “What happened? Is your leg hurting too bad? Do you want me to take a look at the wound? Change the bandages?” He asked questions as he got up to sit closer to the Witcher. He had checked Geralt’s wound a few hours ago and it looked fine. He had bandaged it up as well, despite Geralt’s grumbling about this whole process slowing them down. He had retorted that Ciri would appreciate Geralt to turn late than to never and that had shut him up.

“No, everything is fine. It's not my leg. I am fine.” Geralt replied, making way for the bard. “I just wanted to- no- need to know something.” He said as Jaskier sat beside him.

Geralt was not the one who asked for permission before asking something. Partly because that was not his nature, and partly because Jaskier would give him anything he wanted, he did not need to ask. So the fact that he was asking Jaskier permission definitely made him curious. What possible information could he have that the Witcher needed permission to ask for?

“Yes, anything. What do you want to know?” Jaskier replied softly, gazing into the Witcher’s eyes.

“What happened?” Geralt asked, silently.

“What do you mean? What do you seem to be talking about dear?”

“I think you know exactly what I am talking about. What happened at Aretuza?”

Jaskier felt his heartbeat quickening and the tone shifting. He had told Geralt bare bones information on what happened at Aretuza. How the tower crashed and that Ciri was presumed to be dead, until they found out she was on her way to Nilfgaard. Why was he suddenly curious?

“The umm, the tower of Aretuza. Ciri was apparently at the tower. And umm- it crashed. It fell down like a house of cards into the sea.” He recounted, softly, “And we believed Ciri was trapped underneath. And- Geralt I swear I saw the wreckage myself. There was no way anyone could have lived. And then I found out about your injury, so I-um decided to find you first. And Yen-”

“I know that Jaskier. What I meant was what happened back at the house, Jaskier. How did Ciri get away? She was supposed to be under your watch.” Geralt said, his tone firm as he locked gaze with Jaskier.

Jaskier felt all his breath freeze in his chest. He felt hot and cold at the same time. The forest seemed silent, as if held its bated breath to hear Jaskier’s confession of guilt. He could not meet eyes with Geralt. He had imagined them having this conversation countless times in countless different ways but with the same outcome every single time. That Geralt found out that Jaskier’s negligence was what caused all of this in the first part, and he hoped that in a kinder Universe he would leave him behind like he did on the mountain. Only this time, it would be completely deserved.

How was he going to explain what happened to Geralt? How was he going to say that he was a complete utter fool who thought someone was in love with him and trusted the Prince of Redania and he got betrayed?

Everything had been going so well between him and Geralt. Everything was going well. He and Geralt had made up. He was on good terms with the Witch and he and Ciri got along very well. After years of anguish and insecurities, he had managed to carve out a place for himself in their makeshift family. A place that felt secure to him. A place truly his. And now he had to go and mess everything up again.

And it was all his fault. Jaskier had been for the lack of better words a fool. A complete nincompoop. He had trusted yet again and failed yet again. He truly must have been a fool to swoon at the slightest flattery. He believed himself to be lovable. And now his mistake, nay a grave folly had cost him his entire family.

When he first saw Prince Radovid, he had captured his senses. Anyone could see, Radovid had beautiful features. His hair soft, his eyes softer. And he had fallen in love. He, who had heart wrenching affairs, had made the simplest mistake of falling in love. He had allowed his heart to trust. To believe he would not be let down yet again.

How could he have done that? Just let a complete stranger break down all the walls he had so carefully boarded up. He should have known. Nothing good ever came out of love. Love was only a tale for his ballads, not for his life. But he was weak. He wanted to believe that maybe he was capable of being loved too. Maybe he wasn’t as expendable as he previously thought.

Living with Geralt had always made him doubt himself. Geralt was tall, strong, could fend for himself, hunt monsters, never fell sick, could make do in practically any situation. Jaskier was nothing in front of him. He was a delicate human. He could never hold himself in a fight against any kind of monster, would oftentimes end up falling sick in their trips, be it a common cold or a sprained ankle. He also was quite affected by the weather unlike the Witcher. He always felt like a burden to the Witcher.

The only respite he ever had from feeling like that was when he wrote ballads, and they started picking up like fire across the continent. With his ballads, he managed to actually change the people’s perception of Geralt and the rest of the Witchers. The effects started out subtle, with an ale offered instead of an insult, with a nicer room than a shed and soon the entire continent was subtly but surely becoming tolerant of Witchers. Their coin also increased and most nights, he could also play to a full tavern to get enough money to make do quite nicely. It gave him a purpose, and made him feel less indebted to the Witcher.

He felt like he and Geralt were getting closer, when Yennefer came along. And Jaskier was brought back to square one. If he thought he could never measure up beside Geralt, Yennefer was out of either of their bounds. She was as beautiful as the night sky herself, her eyes shining with a deep royal purple hue. She could perform miracles with less than a flick of her hand. She was insanely powerful.

And what was he? Nothing. Just a bard who could string a few words together. Someone both of them had to look out for. Even Ciri, a literal child, could fend for herself better than he could. All he ever had was his words and his heart at his disposal. His words never seem to be enough and his heart seems far too broken at this point.

And Jaskier couldn’t breathe. His hands still felt clammy. He could not look at Geralt. He could not meet his eyes, not when he knew those eyes held a world of hurt that he had caused. He felt Geralt shift beside him.

“Jaskier. Tell me what happened.” Geralt said.

He felt the shift in Jaskier’s demeanour. He knew this was not the bard’s favourite choice of conversation. But he needed to know. He never talked about it. But ever since he felt better, that one question had been bothering him. The only reason he had been at the ball was because he left Ciri in Jaskier’s care. She was supposed to be safe. She wasn't supposed to end up buried under the tower of fucking Aretuza. She was never supposed to be near any of the wreckage. She and Jaskier both were supposed to be safe. And somehow, she wasn’t. Geralt felt bad asking Jaskier about it. But he needed to know.

Would the knowledge make anything better? Probably not. But he needed to know how he got here. He needed to find the reason. Something to blame. And that did not sound good. But the anger inside him at their circumstances threatened to leave him in every single glance, word, whisper and embrace he graced the bard with. His helplessness was threatening to rip everything they had tried to built together, apart, with no mercy in sight. He needed to know it wasn’t Jaskier’s fault. He needed someone else to blame. So he prodded the bard.

Jaskier on the other hand felt a chill running through his spine. He had hoped to every single God and godless entity out there that they never have to have this discussion. That he would never have to admit to the fact that he was the reason Geralt lost his daughter and all because he was stupid enough to trust a complete stranger.

How was he going to explain to the Witcher that in his naive little heart, he still believed that he could be loved. That maybe someone would take a look at him, beyond his words and ballads, beyond his jokes and just look at him. And still think him worthy of love. Look at all the wrongs he had ever done, and still find a reason to stay. And that he believed that Radovid could be the one. The knight at the end of every fairytale. That he could have his own happy ending like the maidens in his ballads.

How could he tell Geralt that the one night he was supposed to look after his ward, he left her alone in the hut, went out to Radovid. That he let his guard down and when he came back Ciri was missing. And Radovid was in her chamber. And even after the betrayal, he helped Radovid get back to Redania.

What could he possibly say, to make it all sound good enough that Witcher doesn’t leave him behind again? This time deservingly so?

His breath trembled as he finally looked up to meet Geralt’s eyes. He was usually good at reading Geralt’s eyes. But not this time it seemed. He could not tell what Geralt felt. It almost looked like Geralt was willing for his answer. He took a big breath to steady himself.

“Geralt,” He began, his voice caught in his throat as he spoke, this was it. “Just let me explain myself fully okay? Just let me tell you everything. Just hear me out.” He spoke.

“I am so so sorry. I know it was my job to keep her safe. I know I failed. I am so sorry. I just- Radovid came- He’s the Crown Prince of Redania in case you didn’t know” Jaskier spoke, quietly. He fumbled over his words. He fidgeted with the hem of his coat decidedly avoiding any and all eye contact with Geralt.

“The Prince of Redania? Redania as in the same place that wanted Ciri in their kingdom? As in the Court of Philippa and Djikstra Jaskier??” Geralt asked incredulously. How could Jaskier have been so stupid? Could he not see? Did he not realise that if Radovid turned up on their door it could not be for any other intentions but to get Ciri? How could he have let his guard down?

“Yes- Ye- Umm- Look I know how it sounds. Believe me I do. I am sorry Geralt. I know I shouldn’t have let my guard down but Geralt he turned up at the door of the hut in the middle of nowhere and- I know now in hindsight I should have been suspicious of how he turned up in the middle of nowhere but he- I- Geralt- I liked him- I- I- He stood there at the door and I asked him- Geralt I swear I did-”

“Oh you asked him, did you now??” Geralt spat with barely contained fury.

“Pray tell bard, what did he say when you asked him why he was there? Did he tell you that he was there to be a pawn in Djikstra and Philippa’s stupid little game? Did he?” Geralt yelled with frustration. How could Jaskier be such a fool? How could he not see through a little ploy.

Jaskier gasped as Geralt yelled at him. Tears threatened to prick his eyes and he could not let them. He could not cry and demand sympathy for his wrongs. Not when his mistake was so grievous.

“Yes, he did. He did tell me- Geralt- that Philippa wanted him to lure me away and that Djikstra wanted him gone. And I- I- I asked him what he wanted and he- he- he said I was special- I know how it sounds Geralt don’t roll your eyes I know how it sounds- he- he said that I see the best in people and that’s what makes me special- and then he took my lute and played my song back to me- Geralt he had been practising my song- and I trusted him.” Jaskier’s voice broke as he hung his head in shame.

“What happened then?” Geralt growled. Jaskier’s head whipped up to look him in the eyes. His heart was still battering in his chest. He could see barely contained fury in the yellows of Geralt's eyes.

“He- I- I- I liked him Geralt- he- he was supposed to be nice- I didn’t know-”

“What. Happened. Next?” Geralt gritted out.

“I- I kissed him- we- we-um slept together- and when I- woke up in the morning- he- he- he wasn’t there- and I- I ran back to the hut Geralt- and he was there- inside and he- it was well past dawn- so- so the protective enchantment- it was broken and he was inside- and I- I threw him out Geralt- I swear I did. I told him that there was nothing beneath his mask- and he- he left and- but Ciri was already gone Geralt- he didn’t take her- she was already gone- and I looked for her Geralt- I looked for her everywhere- and I couldn’t find her.” His voice was desperate, his words pleading.

He looked at Geralt. He could hear his blood inside his ears. His breath felt a bit too quick. He needed Geralt to know he tried. He tried so so hard. He couldn’t find her but he didn’t stop looking.

Geralt looked away. He could not bear to look at the bard. Not when his anger was at its peak. He could not understand how Jaskier could get so carried away with his feelings that he shirked off his duty. Geralt trusted him to take care of Ciri, and he had one job. To keep Ciri safe. How could he have messed it up so bad? None of this would have ever happened if Jaskier just kept his wits about him. He had always known Jaskier was empathetic and kind. He felt for others. But never had he known Jaskier to be such a stupid fool.

Jaskier watched Geralt intently. Geralt had turned away. He- He wanted Geralt to understand he knew his mistake. He made a mistake. He would do anything to take it back. He just trusted the wrong person.

“Geralt- Geralt please look at me. Please, I am so sorry. I know I messed up okay? I- I didn’t mean to. I would do anything to change it back. I would do anything. I am so so sorry. Geralt please.” He pleaded. He could feel the tears rolling down his cheek. He watched as Geralt silently got up and walked away.

Geralt could not be here. He could not bear to look at Jaskier right now. He was so furious he could not trust himself. He really wanted to yell and fling every single thing upside down. He trusted this stupid little bard. How could Jaskier have done this? How could he have been such an idiot?

What was he supposed to say? “It’s okay Jaskier? It’s completely fine that you let your guard down when I expressly told you not to, which led to Ciri’s disappearance and her life being put in extreme grave danger? I forgive you?” What could he even say? So he chose to walk away. He felt rage prickling under his skin and he knew he had to get out of here before he did or said something both of them would regret. He wanted to shake the bard by his shoulder and make him realise the consequences of what he did. But he decided to walk away. Before he ended up murdering Jaskier out of anger.

Geralt walked away and Jaskier’s mind stopped working. He felt numb. His entire body felt numb. He felt like he was locked in a place and he could do nothing.

“Geralt, Geralt please stop” Jaskier scrambled to follow him. “Geralt please just listen to me once, please Geralt I am so sorry I am so so sorry Geralt please.” Jaskier was desperate, he had to get Geralt to stop. He could not let Geralt walk away again. He couldn’t handle it.

“Geralt please. Please stop. Please I know I made a mistake, please I am so so sorry Geralt.” Jaskier followed Geralt. Jaskier grabbed hold of his arm and tried to turn him around by his hand. That’s when Geralt shoved him.

“Get away from me Jaskier.” Geralt growled, his eyes filled with rage as he shoved him away. “Keep your fucking apologies to yourself. They aren’t going to bring Ciri back are they? Get the fuck away from me. I cannot talk to you right now.”

Jaskier felt like the thunder fell onto him. He felt like he had been slapped in the face. Geralt was right. His apologies weren’t going to bring Ciri back. Or keep her safe. But he had already lost Ciri. He could not lose Geralt too.

“Geralt, I know you are angry at me. I know. It’s justified. I get it, I’d be angry too. But please Geralt come back. Please don’t leave. Geralt talk to me please.”

Geralt whipped around so fast, Jaskier shrank beside him. He could see his uncontrollable rage. For the longest time, Jaskier had brushed people off when they said that Witchers were brutal animals. Something to be scared of. But Jaskier could partially understand that now.

“Oh you want me to talk? Huh Jaskier? You want to talk? Fine sure let us talk? Let’s talk about how you let yourself be manipulated by the Prince of Redania, whose intentions from the beginning- and you knew this- were to steal Ciri and take her back like a trophy to his land.” Geralt spat.

“Or how about you broke mine and Yennefer’s trust? Or that Ciri could be getting tortured at the hands of the Nilfgardians. They could be doing anything to her right now against her will. And you are the cause of all that. Huh Jaskier? Let’s talk about if anything happens to her, you’d probably be the cause of that too. That you considered your stupid little love story more important than the life of a child. She trusted you as she slept and you betrayed her too. What else do you want to talk about? Or are we done here, Bard?”

He watched Jaskier’s face blanch, but he couldn’t stop. Jaskier had hurt him. Hurt Yennefer. And he had put Ciri in danger. This was all his fault. So why should he feel bad for him? He watched as Jaskier flinched with every word. Good for him, he thought. Let him feel the hurt he has caused. Let him see the consequences of his actions. Every tear that rolled off of Jaskier’s cheek gave him some twisted sense of satisfaction. Every little hurt he inflicted, made him feel better. Jaskier deserved that and more for putting Ciri in danger. He was not going to coddle Jaskier for his failed affair. Not when he lost his daughter. So good for him, he thought. Let him feel all the hurt. Let Jaskier feel all of the hurt he felt all these days. Let him learn that his stupid actions have consequences the rest of the world has to bear.

With that, Geralt walked away. He knew if he stayed there any longer, he would have said something so truly horrible to the bard that there would be no recovery from that. A small logical part of his brain did try telling him that Jaskier got manipulated. It wasn’t his fault. But Geralt was too angry to think about that. Too betrayed. He didn’t care if he got manipulated. He shouldn’t have. His negligence put Ciri in danger. Even if he didn’t mean it, that’s what happened. Intentions mean nothing if these are the consequences. Intentions don’t matter. Consequences do.

Jaskier on the other hand was still rooted to the spot Geralt had left him in. He had watched as Geralt left him. Left him behind. He slowly sank to the ground. He felt his tears stain his cheeks as he sobbed. Geralt was right. He was the one responsible for it. For all of it. For Ciri’s danger, for Geralt’s anguish, for Yennefer’s worry. None of this would have ever happened if he hadn’t been a fool. If he had just done what he was told to.

He had gotten a literal child into danger because he wanted to feel loved again. He had broken Geralt’s trust because someone called him special. He had stripped Yennefer of her daughter because someone kissed him. And there was nothing he could do about it.

He was going insane. There was nothing he could do. He had nothing to offer. Nothing he could do to make this right. No knowledge, power or influence of any sort. His mind wandered back to the mountain, to Rience. His entire body was shaking. His sobs had stopped, but the trembling hadn’t. He was truly utterly broken. He was a burden as Geralt had rightly called him all those years ago. He was the one who kept shovelling shit for Geralt to deal with.

He sat and curled up his knees. He just felt numb. He had nothing to say to Geralt. How could he even ask for forgiveness? There was a line beyond which forgiveness did not work and he was miles ahead of the line. So he just sat. Numb and broken. Hoping Geralt would let him stay. Not for his own sake. No. But he had caused this mess. His mind would eat him alive if he did not help fix at least some of it.

He had already decided, even before this conversation. When he had seen Geralt lying almost on death's doorstep. He had promised himself. He was nothing but a burden. A jagged edge in the beautiful family that Yennefer, Ciri and Geralt made. A stain on their happy picture. He had told himself, this would be his last adventure. He’d save Ciri this one last time. Once Ciri was with Geralt and Yen, he’d part from them. Forever. Go his own way. He did not want his existence to break their precarious love.

He knew he brought only death and destruction in his wake. He knew he was unlovable and that it was his destiny to be alone. He had promised himself that he would stop fighting his destiny. Instead he’d go along with it. He’d leave Geralt alone. And it would break his heart to do so. But if keeping himself out of the lives of those he loved ensured that they’d be safer even if just the smallest degree, it is a sacrifice he found worthy.

He would let go. And now, by the looks of it, it seems Geralt would be happy to have him gone. Why wouldn’t he? After all he was nothing but a menace to put Geralt into difficult situations. He had hoped that Geralt would have felt bad as he left him for the last time, but it seems destiny did not seem to allow him that simple favour.

He’d be lucky if Geralt did not demand him to leave now. And if he did, what was Jaskier supposed to do? He figured he could leave. Maybe find Yennefer. See if he could help her find Ciri. Activate all his old Sandpiper routes and connections to figure out where Ciri went. That was until Geralt told her what happened and then she banished him too.

Or would Geralt keep him around for his information? And his help? Two people were of course better at finding than one weren’t they? Jaskier’s mind couldn’t help but imagine scenarios. Even if they come up on the Nilfgaardian army, what would Geralt do? Would he even try to shield him from their bows and arrows? He’d bet not. He wouldn’t deem himself worthy of any protection. What about on the way there? Would Geralt ask Milva to bring enough resources for just the two of them? Would he ignore Jaskier? Pretend like he wasn't really there? Would they leave Jaskier to fend for himself? Would they allow him to even be near the campsite? How far would Geralt go?

However far Geralt would go, he assumed he deserved it. He probably deserved more didn’t he? Should he leave? Would they be better off without him? It was enticing to leave before Geralt asked him to. But Geralt did truly need any help he could get. Jaskier could make money, he could get information from his old Sandpiper routes. So it would be better for Ciri’s sake if he stayed.

And then once they found Ciri, he’d get out of their hair for good. He would not let destiny use him as a plot device. He would not be the one to inflict anymore pain on them. The three of them were supposed to be a family, he was just a jagged thorn in their side. He was never really meant to have any family. He should have known that. He should have known he was only the harbinger of hurt. He would return Ciri, right his wrongs. And then he’d disappear from their lives so they don’t get hurt anymore.

It’d break his heart to be alone. To be lonely. But that is what one did for love he supposed. He would trade his entire life for them to be slightly safer in this treacherous world. And he’d do it all the time. Because he was worth nothing in front of them. They brought good into this world. They helped everyone. He just made everything worse. He’d be doing the world a favour. And all the heartbreak he would feel, would be a deserving punishment. For messing up so bad. For everything he had ever done.

So he waited. With bated breath. For the Witcher to return. For his fate to be sealed. Whatever it was, whatever the price was, he’d pay it. If there was any atonement for his crimes, he’d do so happily. And so he waited. All he hoped for in a corner of his mind was that destiny would be kinder to him. That Geralt found it in his heart to let him down gently. That all the people he hurt, would in the end forgive him, or at the very least not hate him as much for it.

These were his last waking thoughts, as he sat, looking at the dying fire, waiting for the Witcher to return.

Chapter Text

Geralt could not believe it. He had never felt this amount of rage ever before. He could not believe that Jaskier could be so stupid. How could he have trusted the Crown Prince of fucking Redania? Did he not even care in the slightest about Ciri? And now all of them had to pay for his crimes. He had one very simple job to do. Literally just babysit Ciri. Make sure no harm came to her while they were away. But no. He goes frolicking as usual.

Geralt left the camp. On the pretence of collecting more firewood. They had enough firewood. They didn’t need any more. But he could not have stayed another moment in that suffocating environment. So he unsheathed the axe from his armour and stalked away. Geralt was no stranger to his antics and flirtations. He had rescued that man from several attempts of lords and laymen alike trying to disembowel him for his flirtatious nature towards their wives, or worse towards them even. He never had a problem with the bard’s nature. But today, he overstepped a line.

He knew how important Ciri was to him. He knew and he still made wrong choices all the time. He remembered Jaskier flinching at his words back then. A quiet part of his mind supplied that Jaskier was naive. Always believed everyone at the drop of a hat. He did not deserve this either. But Geralt was not in the mood to coddle the bard.

Geralt was so so angry. He thought as he hacked away at the branches of the nearby tree. Angry at the bard, angry at the world and angry at himself. He could not even protect a child. No- he left Ciri to fend for himself. All he ever wanted was a quiet uncomplicated life. A life, where they’d slay monsters and travel the continent. Maybe settle down someplace. His heart yearned for the glimpse of their lives he caught with Yennefer when they were at the festival of Beltane. Their lives were so nice back then.

But no, the Universe did not intend on showing him mercy. No matter what they did. He knew now, Destiny was just a cruel excuse for the Universe's bitter war against them and their happiness. And now this. Now he had to deal with the fact that Jaskier’s negligence had caused all of this. And he was supposed to roll over, and coddle the bard. Tell him it was okay? He forgave the bard? How could he? Knowing that none of this would have happened if Jaskier just did what he was told?

He could not forgive nor could he forget. No. He walked around, mindlessly picking up firewood and small twigs. He was in no mood nor hurry to go back to Jaskier in the moment. He couldn’t care less. All of this was just so unfair. Geralt kept hacking. Leaves and wood falling at his feet. But it did nothing to make him feel better.

Ciri was just a child. He had laid awake on so many starless nights, despairing about the cruelty in their fate. Ciri did not deserve any of this. She was just a child and she had lost so much already. And there wasn’t much Geralt could give her. He’d have doubts creeping into his mind. Was he being a good parental figure? Was he teaching Ciri good? She was meant to be a princess. Princesses aren’t meant to learn swordplay and hunting animals. They aren’t meant to be dressed in tatters and out fighting monsters. Geralt lamented about her future too. Geralt was far beyond saving, but couldn’t destiny have let her one chance to live a better life? The one that wasn’t filled with so much hurt, darkness, betrayal and fear. One with no more monsters for a change? Geralt was trying his best, but was it enough?

Geralt thought as he continued hacking at a continually stubborn branch. He grunted with effort. Only if this stupid branch would snap.

Losing Ciri again felt like someone had dumped a bucket of ice cold water on him. He had failed yet again as a father. He had sworn to protect Ciri, and he had failed, and let her straight to the enemy. Now she could be being tortured, hurt and made to do anything against her will. Paraded around like some sort of trophy. And he was here, with a broken leg and a bard he could not trust anymore. Every single second that passed gripped his heart with fear for her life. So much for Witchers not feeling any emotions. So no. He was not going to forgive the bard yet. Not until he knew Ciri was safe. That she was okay. Only then would he allow himself to let go of the grudge he held.

Maybe that would make him a bad person and an even worse friend. But that was okay. Geralt wasn’t very good at being a friend or anything else really. There was a reason Witchers were supposed to be solo travellers. Not just for the safety of others but also due to their own inability to be something, someone.

The unfairness of it all made him want to throw everything around. No one should have to live a life like this. He wanted to scream so loud, it’d wake up the forest. He kept hacking and the stupid branch won’t give up. He yelled and threw his axe in frustration. He couldn’t even get fucking firewood. How was he even going to rescue Ciri from an entire army? Fuck.

He kicked the branch in his frustration, and he knew it was a terrible choice the moment his shin made contact with the branch. He was stupid enough to kick with his mangled foot nonetheless. He regretted the decision as soon as stars occupied his vision and pain exploded in his entire leg. Fuck. He stumbled, trying to shift his weight to his other good leg. He really shouldn’t have done that. The pain in his leg was almost unbearable. And he tried to blink the stars in his vision away, but they won’t leave him alone. Dancing almost mockingly in his vision. He felt like he was going to fall down, when he felt a hand around his torso holding him up, manoeuvring him so he could sit down, instead of falling on his leg. His head whipped around so fast, to see Jaskier.

Jaskier had been sitting in the mild glow of the dying fire. Pitying himself, wondering how could he have fucked up that much. How he could have messed up so bad. He watched as Geralt unsheathed his axe. A ripple of fear had gripped his heart as he wondered whether Geralt would end him with it. But then Geralt had stalked away with it, to get some more firewood apparently.

He had sat in the stillness of the forest, and he had heard Geralt hacking away. In his mind, he considered himself lucky that Geralt did not hate him enough to hold the axe to his neck as he had done with Yennefer. He felt lucky that Geralt had considered the branches to be a good outlet for his anger and not himself. And then he heard Geralt yell out. That is what brought Jaskier to his feet. He made his timidly in Geralt’s direction and watched as he was about to kick the branch.

He saw Geralt kick the branch and proceed to lose his balance. That must have hurt badly. Geralt knew how bad his foot had hurt, he shouldn’t have done that. Who knew how bad the injury would be. An injury to his already hurt foot would set his recovery back a couple of weeks or so. He ignored the nagging voice in his head that told him that Geralt only did that because he riled him up, as he made his way to Geralt. Just in time too, as he managed to catch him just as he began to fall. He tried to manoeuvre Geralt so he would not hurt his foot any more.

That’s when he felt Geralt shove him off. He felt Geralt’s rough hands throw him back. The force of being shoved back was quite a lot. He stumbled backwards in shock and watched as Geralt fell back too.

“Don’t fucking touch me. I don’t need your help.” Geralt growled back at him as he fell. His words spoken as if they held venom.

Geralt did not need any help from the bard. He had seen his help. And he did not need any more “help”. Not from the bard. He watched as Jaskier blanched at his words. He clicked his mouth shut. He could not bear the bard right now.

“I am so sorry. I heard you struggling and I came over to help.” Jaskier said softly, his eyes downcast.

“I don’t need your help. Not anymore.”

“I’m sorry. Are- are you going to come back? To the camp? It’s- it’s dark out here.” Jaskier said, rubbing his chest. Geralt had shoved a bit too hard than he had expected. Even when Geralt got physical, he always held back his punches. Somehow, it didn’t feel like he had this time.

“Don’t tell me what to do.” Geralt spat, “What are you still doing here?” his words felt like a viper coiling around his heart, spitting venom with every syllable. Jaskier went cold. Did Geralt not want him there anymore? Frankly, he understood it. He couldn’t exactly blame Geralt for not wanting him there, when he had messed up so royally.

“Do you want me to go?” Jaskier barely whispered out the words. Geralt wouldn’t have heard it if it weren’t for his heightened senses. How dare the bard ask him that? This wasn’t about what Geralt wanted. Now suddenly Jaskier wanted him to feel sympathy for him? He was playing victim, when Ciri, the real victim of all this situation was out on her own somewhere.

“Oh suddenly you care about what I want huh? What I want, Jaskier, is for Ciri to be safe. What I want is for all of this to be over. But I am not going to get what I want. So don’t even talk about what I want.” Geralt said as he walked past Jaskier. He winced as his leg throbbed with pain when he tried to walk. He saw Jaskier standing there, with his arms open, ready to support him up. But no. Geralt had had enough of his share of Jaskier. He used his sword as a leverage to walk towards their campsite. Leaving Jaskier in the dark.

There was a part of Jaskier’s mind that wanted to leave then and there. Just walk away on the opposite side. Let the darkness of the forest engulf him. Just go without thinking. Geralt probably wouldn’t follow him anyways. No one would care, would they? He really wanted to just run away. From here, from his thoughts, from everything. He just wanted to rest. Be somewhere people wanted him. Some place he could convince himself, he wasn’t all bad. But he knew the mistake in his ways. Every time he let himself trust himself it would get better, it only really got worse. Jaskier didn’t really feel worthy enough to deserve anything better anyways.

Anyways, he shook his head. He couldn’t run away. Not with Geralt like this, with a mangled leg. He couldn’t let Geralt fend for the enemies alone. He couldn’t give up on Ciri. He messed up once. He deserved this. He had to fix his wrongs. The onus was on him. So he followed Geralt. Back to the campsite. He watched as Geralt laid out his own mattress. He watched as he winced and sat down. He undid his own bandages with a wince to redress them.

“Geralt, please I know you are mad at me, but let me help you please. Let me clean it up for you.”

“Why? Why do you want to even help me? Haven’t you messed up enough Jaskier? Why do you want to mess up more?” Geralt asked as he undid his bandages. He breathed slowly through his nose, trying to keep his composure. It hurt so bad. Really knocking his bruised leg on a branch was one of his most terrible ideas. But he could handle it, like he always did.

Jaskier blanched at his words. He should have known, putting Ciri’s life in danger really was an unforgivable mistake. Something he really couldn’t recover from. Yennefer had to slit her wrists for Geralt to even begin to trust her just the tiniest bit. Yennefer was useful. She had magic that she could teach Ciri. He was not. He had nothing. But that didn’t stop him from offering to do whatever he could.

“Geralt, if you don’t clean that wound properly, it could get worse. You don’t need that. You need to be at your best if we are to even try to rescue Ciri.” Jaskier pleaded. He was really trying to reason with Geralt. He wanted to prove he was useful. Someone worth having a place in their lives. Jaskier sat beside him and tried to help with the bandages.

“Oh it's ‘we’ now huh? Where was the ‘we’ when you failed your duty?” Geralt snarled, swatting Jaskier’s fingers away. He did not need the bard.

“This isn’t the first time I’ve been injured and it won’t be the last. I did well before you came along. And I’ll do better when you are gone. The only reason you are around right now Jaskier, is because I am giving you one chance to fix your mistake. And because two people can fight an army better than one. Do not mistake my helplessness for kindness, Bard.” Geralt said as he did his own bandages.

Jaskier took his hand away as if it was scalded. His big doe eyes turned to look at Geralt. Geralt saw flashes of regret and hurt in them. Clear as day. And he could also feel a nagging feeling telling him he might have gone too far this time. But Jaskier schooled his face, the hurt in his eyes gone as soon as it came. He got up wordlessly and walked over around the fire, and sat away as he possibly could, with his book and lute near.

Geralt finished bandaging the wound and laid down in his mattress. He watched as the stars shifted above him. He willed himself to go to sleep. He knew he’d need his strength if they were to rescue Ciri. He tried to sleep. Today had been too much. He just wanted his mind to stop thinking for once. Just let him rest.

Jaskier watched silently, as Geralt slept, with his face turned away. He could feel the tears welling up in his eyes, as he scoured through his books for his old maps, from the sandpiper’s time. He swatted the tears from his eyes to concentrate on his maps. He had to do something, anything to help Ciri. They would approach a village tomorrow. He could activate all his Sandpiper routes, and contacts. He would have to send some letters, which he could write now.

He wasn’t useless. He wasn’t trouble and he would prove that to Geralt even if it took his life. He had messed up. He knew. But Geralt had given him a chance and Jaskier would rather die than mess that up. He was determined to save Ciri not only for her sake, but for his own as well. He could not stand the rift he put between them and he would show Geralt he was worthy of being around too. His new purpose made Jaskier feel a bit better, even if it were only a tiny bit. Geralt was right. This was perhaps his one and only chance to redeem himself and not lose all the people he had come to care about in the past years. He could right this, no matter what it took.

Jaskier sighed as he sat under the tree a few hours later with nothing but the silence of the forest keeping him company. He had maps and letters sprawled all around him. He had originally planned to sleep. But he had decided to give up after being woken up by rather harsh nightmares. Nightmares that seemed too close to reality. Nightmares where Rience had him locked up and Geralt watched from the side, never once attempting to help or save him. Just watching. He had been getting better. He had talked to Yennefer, after the whole debacle with Rience and she had kindly given him potions to soothe him and allow him to gather some much needed sleep. But it seemed like the potions were useless now.

He had given up trying to sleep after being woken up twice, drenched in sweat and with his entire body trembling, feeling something close to tears gathering near his eyes. The second time he had almost woken up Geralt. That’s when he gave up trying. Geralt needed sleep. And Jaskier had much better things to do anyways. He needed to figure out where they could have taken Ciri. He did not really need to sleep that much anyways. What he needed was to be of use to Geralt and Ciri.

So here he was sat, at a safe distance from the dying embers of the makeshift fireplace. He sat at a good enough distance that he could faintly make out his maps and letters, but at enough distance that the embers would not reach him. Unfortunately one good thing Rience had managed to fuck up for him was taken joy out of being in the warmth and glow of fire. That also meant he was quite cold. He did have one blanket, but he had seen Geralt shivering. The cold was truly one of the worst ones in quite a few years. And considering that Geralt was the one wounded, Jaskier thought he could let Geralt have his blanket. A part of Jaskier thought of his actions as noble, but truly his actions were selfish. Because in his sleep, Geralt could not refuse Jaskier’s help. Maybe if he kept at it, Geralt wouldn’t be so mad at him.

Jaskier shook off the thoughts from his head and focused his attention on the letters at hand. He had already written quite a few of them. He had to be careful. He did not wish to draw unnecessary attention to himself or Geralt for trying to search Ciri. If there was any chance their plan succeeds, they would need the element of surprise by their side. It was difficult enough choosing words, asking questions about the “Princess going back to Nilfgaard” without raising suspicion. He had also asked a few of his trusted route managers to keep an eye out for any news and to let him know immediately. With any luck, his life’s work would find a way to repay him back.

He poured over maps, trying to figure out a quicker route to Nilfgaard. He knew of many elves he had helped escape to Cintra from Nilfgaard and that thankfully lended him quite a lot of information about how to get out of Nilfgaard. He had already figured out a few routes. He would have to share that with Geralt when he woke up. That is assuming Geralt considered his opinion worthwhile.

The events of last night still shone fresh in his mind. His mind wandered as he watched the dying fire. The night hadn’t even began yet and the fire was already starting to go out. Every single word Geralt said to him kept coming back to haunt him. Was this truly what Geralt thought of him all this time? All this time, Jaskier thought Geralt was his closest friend. He had thought he had managed to get close to the Witcher. Get past the doors and walls he held up. Was that all his own misunderstanding? Did Geralt actually hate him that much? So much that he would rather get rid of him? Had he not managed to carve out any space in the Witcher’s heart for himself? He knew in his heart that he was of no use to Geralt, or anyone else really. But he never wanted to accept the reality of him being so despicable. And how pathetic was it that he still tagged along even though he knew they would leave him behind at the drop of a hat? And maybe he deserved to be.

The fire was dying out. It was too cold. Had Geralt been feeling better, he would have made sure to stock enough wood that the fire would not go out. Not so soon anyways. He watched as Geralt tossed in his sleep, clearly feeling the chill seep into his bones. They had been travelling through woods for a long time without a proper bed or hot meals. The cold was definitely getting to both of them. He really should start that fire before it went out. For Geralt’s sake. He could not have Geralt fall sick.

He decided to get the fire up again. He was scared. But he had to do it. No one was going to coddle him anymore. He trudged back to the branches Geralt had been hacking in total darkness. It was so dark, it swallowed him whole. There could be a monster behind him and he would never see it coming. He brought his hands around his torso to stop himself from shivering. He reached the place soon enough and started to blindly reach out and collect the branches left behind. It was too cold. His hands trembled so violently, he almost found it too difficult to hold onto the branches. He could not even bear to think how cold Geralt must have gotten. He needed to hurry back as soon as possible.

He collected as many sticks and branches as he could and walked back to their camping site. He quietly approached the fire. With every step closer to the fire, his heart grew heavier and his breath quickened. He watched the fire, and it all came back to him. Bound to a chair, the mad glint in Rience’s eyes, and worst of all the burning. The heat on his fingers, the sound of his finger’s burning, the thick and overwhelming smell of burning flesh. His flesh. He was shaking so hard, he couldn’t do it.

He couldn’t do anything. He couldn’t even get a fucking fire started. He really was useless. It was kind of Geralt to keep him around for as long as he had. He couldn’t breathe. He felt like the burning smoke was filling up his lungs. He couldn’t move. He felt like his hands and legs were tied down. He wanted to pass out. It was too much. He couldn’t do this. He was so tired. He tried to breathe slowly. Inhale and exhale, like Yennefer had taught him once after a particularly terrible moment of hysteria. He had to get the fire started. He haphazardly threw the branches into the fire, hoping it’d take. He used a particularly long stick to move the embers onto the new branches, hoping to all Gods that it would suffice.

Thankfully, it took. The fire felt like it grew a bit. Jaskier chose not to stay there to watch. He crawled as far away as he could from the fire on shaky legs and trembling breath. He sat against a tree trunk, trying to get his heartbeat under control. The memories of Rience tortured him. Being bound. Being helpless. Geralt hadn’t even known. Yennefer wouldn’t have known if he hadn’t tried to help her escape. She didn’t even need to search for him. She could have just gone on her way. And no one would have come to rescue him. No one would have even wondered whether something was wrong. He could have died. Would Geralt have even known?

The worst part about getting tortured by Rience was the fact that he was on his own. No one was coming to save him. He had gotten in trouble many times. But every single time, he knew Geralt would eventually come to rescue him. He had never really been afraid. But with Rience, it was different. He knew no one was coming. And he knew he couldn’t save himself if he tried. He knew he had nothing else but to wait and hope Rience realised he had nothing to give and leave him alone. But he knew that would never happen. And that was the moment he had felt true fear. Of being utterly, desperately alone.

He had gotten better after that. Realised that he still had a family. Geralt, Ciri and Yennefer. But maybe not. Maybe he was just someone who hung around them. Like a fly you couldn’t swat away. They had called him to travel with Ciri. To draw out Rience. He didn’t mind being a bait. And for Ciri, he didn’t mind at all. But in a small part of his heart, he did wonder, would they call him if he didn’t have anything to offer them anymore? Would he still be their friend? He had tried desperately to convince himself of course he would continue to be their friend and family. But now, he wasn’t so sure. Maybe he never was. Maybe he was just desperate.

Geralt’s words brought back memories. Not just Rience, but of his own family, or its lack thereof. He couldn’t help but think he was the common denominator. He wasn’t a part of Pankratz family and neither was he a part of Geralt’s and the only thing they had in common was himself. After he had left home, he had essentially reinvented himself. Tried to be better. Clearly that didn’t work. His lack of family was telling the truth he did not wish to hear.

He just sat. Tired. The fire went on roaringly. Geralt must be sufficiently warmed up now. He was cold, but he didn’t really care. He was also quite tired but it didn’t matter. He hoped they’d reach a village so he could connect with his contacts and be more useful. He hoped things would get better. That the next morning would be better. He decided to pour over his maps and write letters, hoping he could finally get an opportunity to redeem himself.

Chapter Text

Time had gone past them quite soon. Although Geralt’s newly opened wound had slightly impeded them, they had made it to the closest village of Duskendale relatively soon. By the time they arrived at the main square, the sun was already setting on them. Despite the tension between them, neither of them could deny that the village was a much needed reprieve from the cold dark floors of the forest.

Jaskier had been to this particular village before, multiple times infact. This tiny town was smack in the middle of the boundaries of Cintra and Nilfgaard. He had been here with Geralt to track down a Banshee, but more than that, he had been here during his time as the Sandpiper, as he helped the elves escape into Cintra.

Jaskier, unlike most other days, had not even stopped at the nearest inn. He had seen Geralt walk into the inn, and left in search of a messenger to immediately send his letters to nearby areas asking for information. He had also arranged for a meet up with his associates from his time as Sandpiper. With any luck, he should be finding out about the Nilfgaardian army’s whereabouts and plans pretty soon.

Normally, at this point, Jaskier would have been sloshed with drinks and played his lute and danced on top of tables, collecting his fair share of coin. Geralt would be watching him from one corner, sipping his drink, while keeping a hawk’s eye on him. Ever since they had begun travelling, Jaskier knew, although the Witcher never really said out loud, he cared for him. His care was evident in the way his eyes followed Jaskier around the tavern as he performed. In the way he always saved a cup of wine for Jaskier after the performance. Or how he would begrudgingly accept that Jaskier’s performance was in fact really good. He chuckled bitterly. Had he hallucinated the care Geralt held for him? Did Geralt really not care? Not even a little?

He walked back to the inn he saw Geralt walk into. He wanted to go up to the room, but a tiny voice in his head questioned whether Geralt had even gotten a room for them. Was he allowed to be in there? Eventually, he decided to not test Geralt’s patience by walking into his space, and instead settled for spending some time in the tavern.

Jaskier really longed for a nice warm bed. Cold damp forest floors had done nothing for him, but he unfortunately knew that sleep was not going to come that easy to him. In the last few days since his fight, he would have been lucky to get a few hours of sleep in total. Every time he closed his eyes, his brain conjured up images of Ciri, Geralt or even Yennefer being in danger, and him being unable to do anything about it.

Eventually, after a couple of nights of battling the nightmares, Jaskier had given up on sleep completely. It was much easier to stay up than to risk getting trapped in his dreams. Moreover, his screams more often than not woke up Geralt, and Geralt really needed his rest if he were to heal properly and be good enough in the fight against the Nilfgaardians.

So yes, letting Geralt take rest on his own was probably the better choice for both of their sakes. He hoped that letting Geralt cool off would also cause him to be less harsh on him, but when had he ever been that lucky?

He decided to walk up to the bar keep and offer a performance. At least his art was one thing no one could take away from him. Atleast, his skills with the lute was something he had. He offered his services, in exchange of coin and made sure Geralt’s room would get a warm bath and a few more blankets. The bar keep was thrilled to have him perform and agreed to his requests easily.

Ever since Jaskier had walked into their town, he had noticed, like every other town, the people here seemed to be on edge with each other. As if they waited on the precipice of bearing arms against each other. The tensions were palpable in their stares and curt nods and bare acknowledgements. It was just another testimony of just how much distrust the war had sowed throughout the Continent. It was clear the people of this land, especially, would have witnessed the horrors of the first war first hand, since they were on the precipice of the battlegrounds between Nilfgaard and Cintra.

As the evening advanced, more and more people poured into the tavern. The tension got thicker. Jaskier began his performance, as people waited around in bated breath. His first few songs got no applause, which was quite unusual for Jaskier. He could see the unease in the faces of the people. He swiftly moved on to some more jolly songs for the night in the hopes of lightening the mood. As time went on, he could feel the tension melt. Slowly, people even began joining him along, cheering him on. Drinks kept pouring in, cups cheered and people sang, the atmosphere slowly turned better. People started feeling more free.

Jaskier kept up his usual antics of prancing around the tavern, climbing on chairs and tables, winking at the particularly pretty ladies. He actually felt good about bringing these people together in a way, allowing them to have a night to breathe and lighten until the distrust crept its way back the next dawn. But, he did not feel happy. Perhaps it was the feeling of Geralt’s gaze on him that he missed, or the glass of wine after his performance. Or perhaps, it was the feeling of fraud he felt, for singing about Geralt as if they were best of friends when their relationship had frayed and probably ran its course. Whatever it was, he could not let his audience show. So he danced like a puppet and put on a performance, hoping no one noticed anything.

After a few hours of raw singing, his throat clearly needed him to take a break. The people’s spirits were high and they had started heading home. He too excused himself to a table in the corner for some rest. Geralt had walked into the bar somewhere in the middle of his performance. He had made a beeline to the bar, ordered a drink. He had sat at this corner table for a bit, finishing his drink, but he had almost religiously kept his eyes off of Jaskier. Jaskier had tried to meet his eyes so many times to no avail. He had not paid any attention. Once he finished his drink, Geralt had walked upstairs and not come back since.

Jaskier, however badly, craved the rest, he did not wish to push himself on Geralt, since the latter had made it clear their relationship was clearly based on his usefulness and nothing else. So he sat in the corner, once again pouring over his maps, waiting for his acquaintance to show face. He had tried to set up a meeting with his accomplice from his time as Sandpiper. Jaskier had heard rumours about the Nilfgaardian armies passing through the town, and he needed more information about it.

Soon enough, Henfrey turned up. He waved him over. He offered him a cup of ale as they embraced.

“It’s been long seeing you in these parts, Sandpiper.” Henfrey exclaimed as he settled down. “So, to what do I owe the pleasure?”

“It’s been long seeing you too Henfrey, you have all my thanks for making it on such a short notice.” Jaskier replied.

“Don’t thank me.” Henfrey waved him off. “You have saved countless lives Sandpiper, you do not have to thank me. Now tell me what the trouble seems to be.”

“I need to know if there have been any reports of a Nilfgaardian army passing through this area recently.”

“Well, even Nilfgaardians aren’t stupid enough to lead armies through lands that are not theirs with their banner stapled on their chests. So officially, there are no armies. However, there are apparently travellers moving through our forests. This is a time of festivities for our town and during this time, we usually get a lot more traffic. But this time, it seems a lot more than usual, especially given the war raging on the horizon. The village elders believe them to be Nilfgaardians, but they have not yet bothered us, so we have decided to leave them alone.”

“Did they happen to have children in their party? These travellers?”

Henfrey looked at the bard. He knew it had been quite some time since he had met the bard, but he looked like he had been through things. Not that anyone on this Continent had not, but he looked like time had finally caught up to him.

His normally shaven face looked haggard, his hair was haphazard. His jacket was torn in multiple places, and he seemed to be trembling slightly. Whether the trembling was from cold or from fear he could not tell. His eyes looked sunken and he looked like the shell of the man he once was. Even as he had performed, it felt like he was putting on a show as himself. Almost performing, not really being himself.

“I know who you are looking for, Sandpiper.” Henfrey replied, studying the bard intently. “ As far as I could tell, I could not find any child with them. Neither did I see any child princess.” He looked at Jaskier meaningfully.

“Where are they now?” Jaskier asked, urgently. He did not need any more people knowing about Ciri. He had to rescue her. That was his only shot at even having a family. Let alone a family, it was his only shot at having anyone. Call him selfish, but he wanted to have people to call home even if all he brought them was destruction and sadness.

Henfrey took a deep breath and looked at the bard intently. “Tell me, what does she mean to you Sandpiper? You of all people should know just how dangerous the Nilfgaardians are. So why track them down for a mere princess? I have heard rumours that this princess seems to have magic. Is that why you are going to lengths to track her down? I know the Witcher is here with you. I understand his motivations, I cannot understand yours.”

“My motivations are the same as his. She is family, Henfrey. And what use is Sandpiper if I cannot help when it matters the most? What kind of saviour am I if I cannot save my own family?” Jaskier replied, softly. His guilt was palpable in his voice as it was in his eyes. Henfrey was no stranger to this guilt. He had seen quite many times before when they would fail to rescue the elves. He had seen it before, but this time the guilt was more sharp. More drowning.

“The army is apparently taking a rest stop just beyond the Trail of Mors.” Henfrey replied. “ But Jaskier, this town has managed to reach a very fragile peace after being through harrowing times. Maintaining this peace is of utmost importance to us. We do not wish to be caught in between the war again. I am afraid we may never be able to come back from that. I do not care what is so special about this princess. But I implore you, if you plan to engage with the Nilfgaardians, lead them away from here. Do not take our peace away from us.”

Jaskier could see the desperation in Henfrey’s eyes. He couldn’t help but think of his role in this whole war. Sure, he wasn’t in the forefront, but how differently would things have turned out if he had just kept Ciri safe. They wouldn’t be out here, potentially putting a small town in danger for crimes they did not commit. He already had so much blood on his hands. He was determined to not have any more. He assured Henfrey he’d do anything in his powers to not disturb the town.

“Well, if that is all, I am going to leave. I wish I could help you more, but this is all I know.” Henfrey said, as he got up. He embraced Jaskier. His heart broke as he could almost feel Jaskier’s ribs underneath his coat.

“You have helped a lot. Thank you so much.” Jaskier replied with a smile. For the first time in a long time, Jaskier felt like he had done something useful. He couldn’t wait to tell Geralt about his findings.

Henfrey’s eyes lingered on the bard for a moment as he left. He had known Jaskier for long. It was impossible to not find at least a shard of care for the man even if you had known him for a few hours. He knew Jaskier loved intensely. He loved his craft, his art, his mission and his people. It was sad to see him get reduced to this husk.

“Jaskier,” He called out as he turned to leave. Jaskier turned to look at him. “Take care. And more importantly, don’t die.” That managed to get a chuckle out of Jaskier. “I mean it. Take care of yourself, bard. You are just as important as the people around you. Don’t abandon yourself in your haste of saving others.” and with that, Henfrey stepped out of the tavern in the chilly winter air, hoping that the bard lives through whatever trials destiny pits against him.

Jaskier looks back at the maps in the soft glow of the lantern. The bar had closed several hours ago. He was all alone, sitting in the corner of the bar. He decided to plot out his newly found information.

From his time as Sandpiper, he had gained quite a lot of knowledge about the surrounding areas. He had suspected that the Nilfgaardian army would be headed towards the Trail of Mors and Henfrey had confirmed his suspicion.

Trail of Mors infamously led to a pass between the Nilfgaardian and Cintran lands. The Valley of Lycoris. A valley that was used by a lot of elves to escape out of Nilfgaard into Cintra. The Valley itself, was however, quite a rough terrain, and a very dangerous path to trudge. The advantage of using the path of the valley would be that the Nilfgaardian armies did not follow them there. The risk was death, but elves were battling death anyways, so they ended up choosing the valley. It shortened their travel by almost a week, at least for those who made it. The ones that made it, never talked about their experience in the valley. And were usually found in quite frail conditions. It was considered a miracle if they made it, nevertheless, they always stood at the mouth of the valley offering support to anyone who made it.

Passing an entire army through lands that are not theirs was a difficult thing to do in general. Considering that their army was carrying the Continent’s most sought after princess, it was not wrong to assume they would want to get into Nilfgaard as soon as possible. There could be a possibility that they may choose to go through the valley itself to speed up their journey. It would be a tremendous risk with a huge pay off. If his theory was right, they could actually have a shot at rescuing Ciri. He could not wait to fill Geralt in the next day.

If he did this right, Geralt might finally see him as a worthy travel companion. He had to be right about this. He decided to gather his information, as he waited for the dawn to arrive.

Chapter Text

The dawn arrived soon enough. Jaskier stood outside Geralt’s room with a breakfast tray in hand. He had already asked hot water to be sent up for his bath and then volunteered to carry the tray up himself. He knocked on Geralt’s door. He stood as he heard shuffling of feet and the telltale unbolting of the door as it opened.

When Geralt opened the door, Jaskier was not the person he expected there. Especially not with breakfast. Before he could even speak a word or closed the door, Jaskier had deftly entered the room. Setting the tray down and babbling with his usual amount of excitement. As if everything was normal.

Jaskier entered the room. The shock on Geralt’s face was noticeable and before Geralt could protest he was already in the room. Resigned, Geralt let the door close as he sat down on the opposite bed.

“What are you doing here Jaskier?” Geralt asked with a grunt. He had waited for the bard to return to the room the entire night yesterday. When he did not come to the room in the evening, Geralt had even gone down, only to see him performing jolly happy songs around the tavern, winking at barmaids and flirting with young girls. It made him so deeply angry that he could not take it. He returned to his room assuming the bard would soon follow suit but to no avail. He must have gone off with one of the barmaids like he always did. No care for the situation they were in. It was his foolery that led them here, and he still hadn’t learnt his lesson it seemed.

“Well, I think I might have figured out where Ciri was.” Jaskier replied, buttering the toast before offering it to Geralt. Geralt took it and looked at Jaskier.

“What do you mean? How do you know?”

“Well, apparently, Nilfgaardian army has been spotted near the Trail of Mors not far from here.” Jaskier replied, a smile on his face. “ That means we can follow them and rescue Ciri. Infact, I even received a letter from Milva saying she’d be arriving in town around noon with supplies. We could follow them right away.” Jaskier explained breathlessly.

Geralt could not believe it. After all that searching, they had finally gotten somewhere. A wave of relief passed over him.

“Who gave you this information? Did they mention anything about Ciri? How is she? Did they see her?” Geralt badgered Jaskier with questions.

“I overheard this after my performance and no, they did not mention anything about Ciri. I am sorry. But at least we know where the army is, so we can surely find her.” Jaskier replied. He did not want Geralt to know about his past as Sandpiper. He wasn’t ashamed of it, but he did not wish to share it with Geralt right now. He did not need to know.

The news had definitely worked its wonders. Geralt seemed to be in higher spirits. Jaskier couldn’t be happier. This was certainly an improvement on his sour mood from the nights before. Jaskier had also stepped in to take a quick bath, before packing his provisions and lute. They would be heading out around noon as soon as Milva joined them. They were so close.

He felt worthy after such a long time, he only wished that the Universe decided to spare them kindness for once.

Noon arrived soon enough, and with it, arrived Milva with their supplies. Sharpened swords for Geralt, bows and arrows for herself, and a dagger for Jaskier. He was a bard. He did not like carrying weapons, but it was different now. He took the dagger from her with a heavy hand. He did not miss the concern in her eyes as she looked at him.

“Tell us what you found bard.” Geralt said, eyeing him intently.

Jaskier hated being called a bard by Geralt, but he let it slide.

“Apparently the Nilfgaardian army was spotted here, right on the Trail of Mors.” he said, pointing to his maps. Geralt and Milva both peered over his shoulder to look at the mark. “There was no mention of Ciri or any other child, but it is a highly likely possibility that this could be the Nilfgaardian army. And if it is, then we are less than a day away from them.” Jaskier finished.

“ Let’s go follow them then. We can attack them and get the princess back.” Milva said, as she got up and gathered her bows. Geralt also wordlessly sheathed his sword on the back.

“Wait” Jaskier called out, “We can’t just go behind them like that.”

“Bard, if you are scared, stay back. But do not expect me to sit here and do nothing when Ciri could be a mere few hours ride away.” Geralt spat as he turned around to look Jaskier in the eye. Almost challenging him.

“I am not saying you should stay back, but if you happen to have forgotten, Nilfgaard has an entire army and all we have is swords and bow and arrows. Geralt, we only get a single shot at this. If we manage to muck this up, we could end up getting captured and would be no use to Ciri or anyone else really.” Jaskier replied.

Geralt could not believe Jaskier was telling him off about mucking things up. As if he had not had a personal experience in that.

“So what do you suggest instead?” Milva asked.

“There is a valley beyond of the Trail of Mors. Its called the Valley of Lycoris. If they choose to use the path with the valley, it’d cut their travel by a week. Since the entire continent is looking for Ciri, and especially since Cintran soldiers frequent this area a lot, it would be risky for them to not take the route through the valley. The only problem with travelling through the Valley is that it is impossible to lead an entire army through it. Which means, soon enough, they would be choosing a handful of their best soldiers to accompany Ciri through the valley, while the rest of their army waits on the other side for them. Our chances of defeating a handful of skilled Nilfgaardian soldiers is much higher than defeating an entire army.” Jaskier finished.

Geralt could not deny that Jaskier’s reasoning made a lot of sense. He wasn’t wrong. They needed to be extremely careful about what they were doing here.

“We could contact Yennefer. Ask her to keep a shelter ready for us, shielded by her magic. A checkpoint of sorts for us to get Ciri to. Nilfgaardians aren’t a match against the mages. We could even arrange for her to portal us directly to Aretuza. We all could be safe. The only problem is that the Valley is treacherous. Smoke and fog fills up every nook and cranny and poisonous berries adorn every turn. It will not be an easy journey. But I think its the best chance we have.” Jaskier continued, his eyes pleading Geralt to reconsider.

He knew it was a risky plan. The chances of them even making it out of the Valley were insanely low. But it felt like a better plan than marching up to hordes of Nilfgaardian soldiers. The fatal flaw of his plan was the dangerous nature of the Valley they were about to walk into. It gave them advantage in the sense that it was probably unknown territory for both of the parties involved, but Nilfgaardians still had a higher ground in the fact that they would not have let such a valley go unexplored. Moreover, all they had to do was hold a knife to Ciri’s neck and they’d be forced to drop everything they had. Moreover, Nilfgaardian soldiers seemed to be much better prepared to walk through the valley.

The valley itself was frequented by elves because it also contained a lot of deadly flora that could poison humans who dared to venture and thereby providing them an ounce of reprieve against the constant of chasing. Nilfgaardians had certainly managed to come up with some sort of protective armour against that, and obviously, Ciri, Geralt and Milva would not be affected by anything of such sort. That left him, the puny weak human. And he unfortunately did not have any armour of any sort. But he decided to keep this detail about the Valley to himself. He did not want Geralt to think of him as a burden. They had come all this way to rescue Ciri and he’d be damned if they didn’t do that.

Geralt considered the plan for a moment. If they followed Nilfgaard now, he could still take them. But he had to admit Jaskier was right. He needed all help he could get. He could not muck this up.

“Fine. We will call Yennefer. We will ride at dusk and maintain a safe distance from their camp to avoid any suspicions and we will walk into the Valley right after they do.” Geralt replied, taking off his sword.

“Are you sure about this Jaskier?”, Geralt asked, looking into the bard’s eyes intently. “Are you sure this is a better plan? Are you sure this could work?”

“I think it would. It certainly gives us a much better chance at it. I am sure.” Jaskier replied.

“I won’t blame you for not accompanying us, Jaskier. It is going to be very dangerous.” Geralt said, softly. He laid his palm on Jaskier’s shoulder, trying to meet his gaze. Despite the fight, he needed Jaskier to know backing out was an option. He did not wish to take advantage of Jaskier’s loyalty. He was on the precipice of losing Ciri. He could not dare lose the bard too.

Jaskier met Geralt’s gaze and for the first time in a long time, found genuine concern replacing the darkness of betrayal. Did Geralt think of him as burden? Was this his subtle way of asking him to fuck off? Jaskier knew this was dangerous, especially for him. But he needed to right his wrongs. Prove to Geralt that he wasn’t a burden. That he was a worthy travel companion.

“I am sure.” Jaskier replied, steeling his gaze. He was going to do this no matter what. He had to. Ciri needed rescuing and since he was the one who led to this mess, he’d be damned if he didn’t play a part in getting them out of it.

All he could do now was wait for the dusk to fall. And hope that their attempt would bring them success and bring him a shot at redemption.

Chapter Text

Night fell swiftly plunging the town in darkness. Everything was set up. Yennefer had set up a space for them just outside the Trail of Mors, in a dilapidated hut. She had protected it by magic and soon she would portal inside the hut, waiting for them to return with Ciri so they could all be portalled to safety.

The three of them were sitting with their weapons drawn silently watching over the Nilfgaardian camp. So far, they had not seen any sign of Ciri, which was disappointing. But there was no doubt that this was the Nilfgaardian army. They watched silently as the general gave orders for the party to split up, just like he had predicted. Jaskier felt relieved. They watched as the majority of the party headed around the Trail, while the handful of knights made preparations to walk into the Valley.

He could feel Geralt wanting to attack them right there, but it was too risky. The rest of the army was not that out of shot and could very easily catch up to them. He knew it took all of Geralt’s will to not attack them right now.

He had to physically hold Geralt back, as they brought Ciri out. She looked miserable. Her clothes were tattered. Her body was covered in bruises, new and old. Her hands had rope marks burned into them and whatever inch of clothes were not tattered, were covered in dried blood. Her hair was haphazard thrown into tangle and disarray as opposed to her normally clean braids. Her eyes were sunken, and clearly she had lost a lot of weight. Jaskier couldn’t help but feel a pang in his heart when they dragged her and she stumbled a bit.

He could see her trembling and it shattered his heart to imagine what she must have gone through. Ciri had always been a ray of sunshine, a snarky breath of fresh air. And to see her reduced to this shell hurt his heart deeply. Geralt was right. He had caused this. He did not realise in his blindness to love and validation that he had managed to put a little child through hell. Any hope he held at redemption disappeared as soon as he saw her. He knew Geralt would never forgive him or trust him ever again, and honestly, he wasn’t sure if he could forgive himself either.

Soon enough the party made their way through the Valley and the three of them followed silently. Hair on his neck rose as they stepped through the almost blinding fog that filled the Valley. All he could hear around him was silence. No birds chirping, no rabbits running. Just the sound of leaves crunching under their feet and their breaths in front of their faces.

His own visibility was so low that this began to seem like a stupid idea. How were they even supposed to attack the Nilfgaardians if he could barely see them. He looked over to Geralt who had already taken his potions and Milva who had her hand on the outstretched bow looking for any sign on movement. Jaskier couldn’t help but feel useless. He held his dagger tightly, as he strung his lute on his back.

He walked, carefully avoiding any ivies or plants. Beside him he felt Geralt freeze up, as he raised his finger to his mouth, motioning them to be quiet. Geralt must have spotted or heard them ahead with his enhanced senses. Jaskier gulped. He had been in his fair share of fights but he could not help but feel the fear that crept up. He felt colder, and his jacket was doing nothing at this point.

Geralt signalled Milva as she swiftly sent an arrow flying. The arrow pierced through the air before accurately hitting its intended target, confirmed by a cut off scream. The battle had begun. Walking up closer, he could see the Nilfgaardian soldiers, their bows taught and eyes frantically scanning the wilderness for any sign of their enemy. Screams erupted as Geralt fell upon them, his sword swinging. Milva decided to stay hidden, sneakily attacking them with her bow.

Jaskier had his eyes fixed on Ciri. At first, she seemed confused, but she immediately smiled looking at Geralt as she fought even harder to get out of her restraint. Nilfgaardian army was thoroughly involved in their battle against Geralt, and those who weren’t were skillfully picked by Milva’s arrows, leaving Ciri uncovered. Jaskier stumbled towards her, helping with her restraints.

“Are you okay?” Jaskier asked urgently.

Ciri nodded in response. Jaskier felt relief flooding his nerves. He knew she wasn’t okay in the original sense of the word, but as long as they made it out of here, he could make sure she was as close to it as he could. He started sawing her restraints away with his dagger as he shielded her from the rest of the battle. And soon enough, her legs and arms were freed. He gave her a hand as they walked away from the battle.

Only if it could have been that easy. A soldier saw them moving away, and charged towards them. Jaskier covered Ciri with his entire body, holding his dagger out, screaming for Geralt. Geralt turned around through the commotion and before the soldier could drive his axe, Geralt had already separated his head from his body, which fell to their feet. There had been very less instances where Jaskier had seen something akin to actual animalistic bloodthirst in Geralt’s eyes. And those times paled in comparison to the look in his eyes now.

Jaskier was quick to recover as he led Ciri towards the side of the valley. He could hear Geralt yelling at him to get Ciri out. Jaskier was scared. The scene around him reminded him too much of the battle at Temeria. Warm blood sprayed on him as Geralt’s sword connected with the soldiers. He was drenched from top to bottom in the coppery liquid. He could feel its taste at the back of his mouth. He was trying his best to shield Ciri from the attacks near them. But he couldn’t help his entire body trembling at the sight.

He needed to get himself together. He guided Ciri towards Milva. He desperately wanted to go back to make sure Geralt was alright and not getting overpowered, but he knew he would prove to be of better help rescuing Ciri.

He tried to concentrate on his task, and pushed the battle of Temeria to the recesses of his mind like he had always done. He took a look around, and saw Geralt battling with two of the soldiers. And he could see Milva aiming for a third. The platoon had been alerted to Ciri’s absence and he could hear footfalls behind him, chasing them swiftly.

Just with their terrible luck, it had begun raining. At this point he wasn’t even surprised. Destiny played with them like puppets all the time. How was this time going to be any different? He kept trudging ahead, soaked to the bone, realising that outrunning them seemed impossible. Ciri was not well enough to run and he could not carry her and run, he wasn’t that strong. So he made a decision, albeit a risky one, to hide instead. He led Ciri and himself to the mouth of a hollow cavity. They both held their breaths, pressed up against the wall, hoping that the footsteps following them would get tricked.

In the light of a particularly loud lightning, he got a good look at Ciri’s face, and she seemed even worse than she had from afar. She was trembling and her eyes held this glassy eyed look. Her lips were chapped and her knees looked close to giving up. Jaskier removed his jacket, and wrapped it around Ciri’s shoulder. Perhaps in a testimony to just how tired she was, she accepted it without any arguments. Looking at her state, Jaskier realized the extent of his fuck up. He knew the Nilfgaardian army wanted her alive, but he did not expect them to keep her barely alive. Had the poor child not been through enough. Soon enough, the footsteps walked away from them. He knew they had to keep moving.

He helped Ciri up. Offered her some water that she downed hungrily, before they began again at a precarious pace. They both stumbled through the overgrown vegetation. The fog and the pouring rain made it difficult to make sense of the directions they seemed to be taking. He hoped he was on the right path. He hoped he wouldn’t lead them back to where they came from. As the night grew darker, the shadows played cruel games on his eyes. Conjuring turns where there were none. He wasn’t the best person to give directions, but in this pouring rain, he was extremely terrible.

They both stopped as they heard a branch crack behind them. He shielded her with his body as they moved backwards. To his relief, Milva stepped into the clearing as her arrow whizzed past him to hit whatever soldier had managed to creep up behind them. He whizzed around to see the soldier's body thud to the floor with an arrow coming out of his chest.

Jaskier felt sick. He felt cold, tired and dizzy. And more importantly he felt sick. He had been in his fair share of gruesome scenes, as you do, being a travelling bard with Geralt. But everything hit too close to the battle of Temeria. He could faintly hear Milva crying out to them to follow her. He just blindly decided to follow Milva, hoping they could get out somewhere safe. He could feel his breath getting caught, and felt the air getting thinner as he walked. He couldn’t fall into one of his hysterical fits now. He had a job to do. So he tried to breathe deeply. He began humming silently under his breath. That always calmed him down. He ignored the weird looks from Milva. He had to do what he had to do to hold onto even a single shard of sanity right now. Plus the noises of battle were deafening, atleast to him, and lightning took care of the rest. He was sure his humming would not attract anyone.

He walked behind Ciri and Milva as they stalked through the treacherous valley. Every step had him stumbling and skittering along loose rocks and wet surfaces. Thorns in the nearby bushes caught in his tunic and sent lines of bleeding red across his limbs, but that was the least of his worries right now. He was barely stumbling across the forest. The rain was pelting down harder than ever and he was soaked to the bone, trembling, hoping they’d get out of here soon enough.

He felt like he was held underwater. The sounds around him felt distorted almost, as if he had a wad of cotton in his ears. His limbs felt like they were moving sluggishly, whether as an effect of pent up exhaustion, or bone soaking cold he could not tell. He felt like his heart was going to beat out of his chest and he could hear every single breath he took. He was trying hard to keep the hysteria at bay. They were not yet out of danger. He could see up ahead, Milva had led them towards Geralt. He thanked the gods that she had not lost her sense of direction in this storm.

Geralt pushed them to keep moving faster. He was really willing his legs to move faster. He was doing a good job, until his abdomen got caught on a particularly thin and prickly branch. He felt the forest draw blood, but he knew he had to keep going. Surely they must not be that far. Every step he took, his body felt like lead. He was so tired, he’d have given anything for a warm bed and a full dinner.

“The soldiers, they aren’t far behind us, we have to keep moving. They could catch up soon.” Geralt yelled over the thunder. He was right. The footfalls of the Nilfgaardian soldiers did not sound that far behind. They were relentless, but then the consequences of losing the princess were grave, so it made sense.

“Jaskier move the fuck faster” Geralt prodded him. He really was trying. He didn’t feel like he was controlling his limbs honestly. He was going as fast as he could. The rest of them walked ahead of him, and oftentimes, as he walked, he fell quite behind them and then Geralt would come and haul him up to join the rest of them. He knew he was being a burden but he was really trying hard.

“They know this valley better than us.” Milva yelled back, as she helped Ciri walk over a tricky branch. Ciri truly looked like she was out of it. He couldn't blame the poor girl. Every glance he spared in her direction only increased the guilt he felt. He figured the guilt he carried was his punishment for getting carried away.

He watched as Milva shot another arrow in front of them. Geralt looked at her meaningfully.

“They are trying to get us surrounded.” He said as he slashed through the thicket.

“We won’t be able to make it if they do. We are too slow.” Milva said as she shot another arrow whizzing past them. Ciri stumbled as she walked, only held up by Milva. Geralt’s face was clouded with concern. Ciri looked like she had passed out. Jaskier felt like he was out of breath.

Milva thankfully spotted another crevice and guided them towards it for the time being. They laid Ciri on the floor as Jaskier passed them the waterskin with trembling hands. They couldn't lose her, not after coming so close. He watched as Milva tried to rouse her.

“She’s just tired. She’s passed out, but she’ll be fine.” Milva said, “But it’s going to be difficult trying to get out of here.”

“I can carry her.” Geralt replied.

“And how do you plan to wield your swords while carrying her? I could also carry her, but I can’t wield my bow in one hand now can I?”

“I’ll figure out a way. What do you suggest instead huh? If we stay here, the soldiers will find us. Our only hope is to keep moving.”

Jaskier heard their conversation and felt his breath getting caught in his chest. He gulped. This was all his mess. He would have preferred to not do this, but if this is what it had come down to, he would have to do it.

“I’ll do it.” Jaskier said quietly. Geralt turned to him.

“Do what?” Geralt asked him.

“I’ll- you know- be the distraction. I can lead them away from here, you can get Ciri to safety.” Jaskier said, his eyes downcast. He knew this was a suicide mission, but to be fair he had been responsible for all this mess. And this way he wouldn’t be a burden anymore.

“No, they’ll kill you. It’s too dangerous.” Geralt looked at him incredulously.

“We don’t really have any other option do we?”

“This can’t be the only one we have. I am not going to let you walk into the Nilfgaardian army willingly. No, I can carry her. It’ll be fine.”

“Geralt,” Jaskier said softly, “You know as well as I do, you wouldn’t be able to do that. If I can lead them away, you’d be able to take Ciri to safety much easily. It’ll increase our chances. Geralt, Ciri is the future of this Continent. I am just a bard. You need to save her.”

“Jaskier. No we aren’t doing this.” Geralt protested. Jaskier just offered him a small smile. “No, there has to be another way. This is madness Jaskier, you’d die.”

“I’ll be fine Geralt. Go save your daughter please. I am so sorry I got us into this, let me help getting us out of it.” Jaskier swung his lute on his back. Geralt tried to stop him, but he rested his hand on Geralt’s shoulder. “I’ll try to buy you as much time as I can, but it might not be much. Get to safety okay? Take care.”

“On second thought”, Jaskier said as he paused. He looked intently into Geralt’s eyes. He swung his lute off his back and handed it to Geralt. “Could you keep this for me? I’d hate for anything to happen to her.”

“No, nothing won’t happen to your lute because you aren’t going.” Geralt growled, blocking the exit. Why won’t the bard listen? Did he have a death wish? He was trying to protect them all dammit. He looked at Milva, who averted her eyes in a resigned way.

He met Jaskier’s eyes. They glistened in the streams of moonlight. He saw the resignation in his eyes. It broke his heart to see Jaskier had accepted himself as the bait. Only a few months ago, Jaskier had been complaining about being made into a bait for Rience, quite loudly. He thought that was annoying, but this look of resignation was somehow worse. He watched as Jaskier lowered the lute into the mud near Ciri. He took one last look at Ciri, held her hand, whispered something. The blood flowing to Geralt’s ear felt like thunder. He couldn’t pick up what he said.

With that, Jaskier got up, stepped around Geralt and walked into the unrelenting rain, turning back one last time.

Chapter Text

Jaskier kept stumbling through the valley. He could hear the footfalls of soldiers as they followed him. The branches shredded through his tunic and drew blood where they met him. He did not care for it anymore. He had tried his best to make his way through, but the fog was sinister, making it seem like paths laid where they did not exist. And the downpour of rain took care of the rest of visibility.

He tore through the place blindly, his hands in front, hoping to catch any boulder or obstacles before actually hitting them. He was soaked, drenched head to toe. He was cold. He had stopped shivering an eternity ago. Now the cold only made him more numb, the kind that settled in your bone and gripped you hard. He had fallen down multiple times in his haste of losing the soldiers following him to no avail.

He felt dizzy and tired. It could have been because of the nature of the valley itself. There was possibly deadly flora surrounding him at every single turn. Or that he hadn’t gotten any rest in the past however many days it had been since his and Geralt’s fight. Or that he hadn’t eaten much either. He was so tired.

His mind almost felt numb and his legs felt like lead, along with the rest of his body. His mouth felt like it was full of cotton and stars danced around his vision as if they were at a royal court. He felt hot and cold flashes. The part of his mind that still worked supplied that this was possibly due to the numerous thorns and branches he had managed to cut himself upon, releasing their poison into his bloodstream.

He could not escape the coppery smell in the air. The air around him was thick with it and his lungs ached for a breath. Every breath he gasped stung his nostril and brought him right back to the Battle of Temeria. He had never felt as helpless in his life as he had felt in the battle. His hands bound and his voice hoarse. No one was going to save him then and unfortunately, no one is going to save him now.

He was jerked out of his thoughts by an arrow whistling past his ear. He had to speed up but he was already at his limit. He couldn’t run any faster. He was only a weak human, his mind yelled. He tried to desperately escape his thoughts, though the arrows seemed easier to outrun than his mind. He felt lucky that the arrow didn’t catch him, but before he could properly rejoice, the next whistling arrow lodged itself in his calf.

He screamed unintentionally. The shock and pain had him reeling, his legs buckled under him as he tried to grab for the branches and prevent himself from falling down. He had enough knowledge to know that in ideal situations, he should not remove the arrow to avoid bleeding out, but unfortunately, this was less than ideal. He was barely able to outpace them before, and he surely could not do it with an arrow sticking out of his leg. He was sure his scream must have alerted them to the fact that they had hit their target.

He would have to remove the arrow. He looked at the arrow embedded in his leg and tried not to throw up. Although he had patched up Geralt countless times, his own injuries still made him squeamish. He felt the arrow in the dark, and took a deep breath. He could do this. He had to. He didn’t have much time. Right, just one huge tug. He took a deep breath and with all his might, yanked the arrow head. The pain that hit him was blinding as he bit down on his tongue. The pain was so bad, he thought he could have blacked out for a second. The next thing he noticed was warm blood gushing down his leg. He couldn’t escape the coppery tang that surrounded him. He tore off a piece of his tunic to wrap it around the wound. It was the best he could do at the moment. He waited a moment, to gather his breath.

The taste of iron in the back of his throat almost made him gag. All he wanted to do was lie down right here. Let the soldiers take him. He didn't know what was worse, the possibility of lying here bleeding out, with the Battle of Temeria replaying in his mind, or the capture by Nilfgaardian soldiers, risking torture like Rience which he never quite recovered from.

He decided eventually to keep running. Surely, the soldiers would stop chasing after him right? Surely they would realise he was just a distraction and leave him alone? At least that's what he hoped, as he tried to get up on wobbly feet. He decided to use one of the particularly stout branch lying around as a makeshift cane as he tried to get up. Immediately the pain made him nauseous. He bit back his tears as he tried to make his way gingerly, making as less noise or movement possible.

His heart beats were almost thundering, and he could feel the paranoia take him over. Every single noise, breeze and smell put him on the edge. He could almost hear whispers he knew weren’t real. Possibly because of all the deadly fauna in the valley. He could hear laughter and screams of agony from all possible directions and it was getting difficult to dissect the real from the unreal.

The footfalls behind him sounded impossibly closer. He could never outrun them, not in this heavy downpour and an injured leg. His chances without injuries were low as it is. He could try to hide, but they would catch him anyway. He did not want to go through torture again. He couldn’t do it. He had barely kept himself from spilling any beans about Kaer Morhen last time, and that was mostly because he truly did not know where the Witcher’s abode lay. This time it’d be different. He had been there. He knew perfectly how to get there. He knew all the information they needed. And he wasn’t strong like Geralt or did not have any magical powers like Yennefer or Ciri. Which meant he probably wouldn’t hold up quite well against their tactics. Nilfgaardians weren’t known for their kindness. His fate if he got caught would be pretty miserable.

As he walked with wobbly feet, he realised that in his haze to get away from soldiers, he had ended up cornering himself. He stood on a precipice, with the drop of the valley on one side, and the soldiers coming from the other side. The only way out looked like a steep climb, that he could never make. He stood with his back against the wall.

He looked down, the drop of the valley looked pretty serious. He could not see the floor of the valley, since fog filled up the valley ominously, but he could only assume that the fall would be bad. If he fell, he would most certainly break some bones without question. He looked at the climb, and somehow it looked worse than the valley itself. Loose pebbles skittled down the climb. There was not a set path carved out, probably because people didn’t use this valley that much anyways. There was barebones vegetation, nowhere to hide, or to hold on. Moreover, the climb itself looked steep and unsteady. He wasn't sure he'd be able to hold on and climb given his current condition.

He could feel the adrenaline coursing through his body. He was surrounded. He knew it. He could hear footsteps getting closer. He couldn't run, he could barely hide. His breath grew quicker and the air around him impossibly thicker, almost choking him. The footfalls sounded as if he was underwater. He couldn’t think straight. His entire body was trembling and his eyes focussed on nothing. He fell to his feet.

There was no escape. Nowhere to go, no one to rescue him. There were stars in front of his eyes, and warm blood running down his legs. He fell, face first into the dirt below, gasping, hoping his agony would end before he was caught. That the universe would grant him this mercy. He hoped Geralt got away, that he would have managed to save Ciri. He hoped he’d have finally managed to be worthy of being a companion. He could hear the footsteps catching up to him as he drifted in and out of consciousness.

Chapter Text

Jaskier felt rough hands on him pull him up, and he was surrounded by shouts and chaos. Before he could even gather his thoughts, he felt rough kicks and blows to his body. Clumsily, he curled up to try and protect his head. He could hear screams ripping out of his throat and merciless kicks and blows landed on him. He felt hands grab him by the collar of his tunic, to make him stand up. He leaned heavily on the soldiers propping him up.

The leader of the soldiers stalked ahead of him. He and the rest of the soldiers were covered head to toe in the blood of their comrades. He could see the unbridled rage that filled every single crevice of their souls. His fate did not look good.

“Where the fuck are they?” The leader asked him gruffly, holding a dagger by his throat. “Tell me where the fuck they are or I run you through right where you stand bard.”

“I don’t know where they are. I truly don’t” Jaskier replied, trying to get away from the edge of the dagger. The general held the dagger even closer, drawing a few drops of blood where it met his skin.

“Bull fucking shit.” He said as he slapped Jaskier across the face. The slap stung so bad, he could feel blood pooling in his mouth. “Tell me where they are now, or you will regret it I swear on Melittle”

“Listen to me, I was just following them. I don’t know where they were headed. And then I got separated from them. I barely know where I am right now. I don’t know where they are. I don't even know if they are alive.” Jaskier pleaded with them.

“Don’t you lie to my fucking face, boy.” Jaskier could barely hear over the blood thundering in his ears. He had suffered through worse, he was not about to give up now. But he knew if he didn’t escape, they would probably hurt him until he either told them of Ciri’s whereabouts or until he died. He was but a useless pawn to them. He had landed them in this mess, and he sweared on Melittle he was not about to make it worse.

“I wouldn’t tell you even if I knew.” Jaskier replied as he spat at the general’s foot. He saw the anger rise in his eyes, and he saw the blows rain on him. He could feel kicks hitting his ribs. He wondered belatedly whether he had cracked one. He couldn’t really tell in this downpour. He could feel delirium setting in his bones. He was tired, he could probably sleep for an entire eternity. But he was scared to close his eyes, lest he never wake up.

These soldiers were relentless. They had one job, delivering Ciri to Nilfgaard. Failure this critical would most likely hold severe punishment for them in their homeland. They would not relent until they got Ciri back. Which left Jaskier with very limited options. Either he riles them up and suffers their blows enough to keep their attention on him and prevent them from going after Geralt and the party. Or he could lead them in the opposite direction to where Geralt was headed. He eventually planned to lead them in the opposite direction, but his reputation as a bard was well known across the lands. They knew he could not be roughed up with a few kicks to give up such important information. So probably a more believable course of action would be for them to rough him up more, and then for Jaskier to pretend to be scared out of his life, and then lead them away.

Jaskier could barely hold himself up as kicks and fists found every single part of his body, hitting harder than anything he had felt ever before. They surely rained a lot of blows for just 3-4 people. Jaskier also felt confused. He didn’t feel fully aware of his own body, and his head felt like it was filled with cotton. Blood dripped along his skull, ruining his doublet, as he realised belatedly.

“I will ask you again boy. Point us in their direction. Or the consequences would be yours to bear.”

“I don’t know. I don’t know where they are. You can take my life, but you will never get the answer from me.” Jaskier grunted, biting his lips. He felt dazed. He felt like his mouth was filled with cotton, but his entire body felt like it was on fire from inside out. It felt like someone pumped hot gold through his veins. The pain was almost unbearable. The general pulled him up by his blood matted hair. Jaskier looked him in the eye and saw the unbridled rage barely clouding the fear of prosecution and punishment in his eyes.

“Listen to me boy." The general spat, as the other two soldiers held writhing Jaskier. He lowered, and continued as he met held Jaskier's chin to meet his gaze, "We are not leaving this valley without Ciri and neither are you. I have nothing against you Bard, in fact, my daughter looks up to you. If she had her way, she would probably go become a bard too. Me and my men have nothing against you. We are here on a job, and we intend to complete it. If you help us, we can make sure to get you to safety. We will take care of you and make sure to get one of our healers to look after your wounds.”

Jaskier couldn't hear anything over the blood in his ears. Jaskier could barely think. All he could do was writhe and scream. There was fire in his veins. He was trying to scratch it out. He was burning from inside out. He couldn't breathe. His vision was becoming hazy. He could not think, the pain was unbearable. He needed the pain to stop. He needed it to stop right now. He couldn’t do this anymore. He was being burnt alive. Did Rience get him again? Was Rience burning him alive? He thought he had escaped. Was he back again?

“The herbs in this valley are poisonous, Bard. They will kill you, if you go unattended. And trust me, it will be painful. Just tell us where the Witcher and Ciri went, and it’ll all end, Bard.” The general said. “I can take the pain away, if you just show me where they went, Jaskier.”

Jaskier was feeling desperate. He couldn’t do this again. He couldn’t face Rience again. He didn’t want to burn. He wouldn’t recover this time. He barely got out last time. He couldn’t do it anymore. He needed the fire to stop. He needed it to stop burning. He didn’t want to tell them anything but he couldn’t keep burning. It hurt him so much, he couldn’t burn anymore. It would kill him. Tears escaped his eyes. He could feel his breaths come in bouts. He’d do anything to stop the pain. He needed it to stop.

“I can show you the way, but please stop. Stop burning me, I’ll do anything please. Please stop it please.” Jaskier was begging on his knees. He needed the pain to stop. He would do anything. He wasn’t a Witcher, he was just a useless human. He’d always remain one. He’d go insane if the pain didn’t stop.

“I promise if you lead the way Jaskier, I’ll take away the pain.” The general replied as he hoisted him on his feet. Jaskier was in pain, but he could still lead them away right? They wouldn’t see through his little trick? He hoped they wouldn’t. At least not for a long time. Any more time he could buy Geralt. This would be the last thing he could do for Geralt.

Jaskier stumbled on as he barely continued walking, his knees folding with every few steps. He was tired, and Rience was burning him. He was scared out of his life. He could barely see or think. Everything was mushing together. He didn’t know where he was going, all he knew was it was away from Ciri. He hoped it’d be enough.

Chapter Text

Margrave was an Army General. He had led the Nilfgaardian in many battles, and had a myriad of scars as a proof of his victories. He had risen through the ranks as a young strapping lad to being one of the king’s most trusted warriors. He had been on many missions before, but nothing came close in seriousness than procuring this Ciri.

He didn’t understand the need for sending an entire army to bring this one wee little girl. But questioning the king’s order wasn’t what got him to where he was, so he just followed them. He prided himself on leading his battalion, causing minimal harm, and bringing most of his soldiers back home. But that one Witcher had been a scab on his record, slaughtering his men like cattle.

It wasn’t about the girl anymore. His orders were to bring the girl back alive, but the Witcher? He was going to relish in slaughtering the Witcher. He was also going to relish in slaughtering this bard once he no longer had any use for him. How dare they tear down his men where they stood? He was going to teach them a lesson in never standing up against the Nilfgaardian army, or die trying.

He almost felt bad for the bard. He seemed to have been caught in the crossfire. What was a Witcher even doing with a bardic companion, that too without any magic or any abilities. The bard’s loyalty was to be admired though. Had this valley not made him insane, he never would have budged. He had caught his daughter singing a couple of this bard’s songs. Rumour had it, this bard in particular had a honeysuckle voice. Even the screams from the bard sounded melodic. Too bad that he’d cut him down where he stands once he leads them to the Witcher. His blade thirsted for blood, and Margrave was not above some bloodshed. The bard walked ahead of him, half stumbled, half carried by Gunter and Styvn. While Owin was on lookout, looking for tracks or signs of the Witcher.

“Maybe we should stop.” Styvn spoke up meekly as they arrived upon a tiny crevice. Margrave’s sharp gaze snapped in his direction.

“We won't rest until we find the girl”

“We have been walking for ages. We don't even know if the bard is well enough to take us in the right direction. We haven't eaten since the battle. Gunter is on the brink of consciousness, he's lost a lot of blood. Owin is shaking more than a leaf in the storm. And if we are trapped in the valley, so is the Witcher.”

“Sir” Styvn added meekly. It was clear the boy did not wish to overstep his boundaries, but he was right. As much as it pained his heart, Gunter probably wasn't going to make it. He had lost a pool of blood and the Witcher had nearly sliced off his arm. Owin was the youngest. Never been in a battlefield. His back was tight as a rope. And he looked like he was trapped in a hell of his own making.

“We can't stop. The witcher might get away” He replied.

“He won't. We have his precious bard. The bard can't run away. We can always propose a trade. And the Witcher would definitely come running back for his bard.”

“Sir, we can only take revenge if we are alive to take it.”

He was right. As much as he hated to admit it, the boy was right. He was a general after all. These boys trusted him with their lives everytime they walked blindly into war. Even if he had pledged his life to the king, he had to be their leader. They couldn't keep going on like this. He had to be strategic. He couldn't risk dampening the spirits of his soldiers. They needed to believe that they would live through this and if rest was what they needed, he had to give it to them.

“Fine.” Margrave relented begrudgingly.

“We'll make a small camp. Heat up the rations. Gunter, let me take a look at the arm. Owin help light the fire. We will rest for a few hours. All of us except Gunter will take turns to keep watch while the rest sleep. No loitering any more than necessary. And keep a watch over him” He beckoned in Jaskier’s direction.

“Infact Owin and Styn, take him with you to forage some wood. Not like he's going to run away with two bulky lads by his side yeah? I'll look at Gunter’s wound until then.”

Owin and Styn nodded as they dragged Jaskier towards a clearing. They dropped him on his knees, with his hands tied in front.

Jaskier could barely keep track of the direction. How was he ever going to escape? He could feel the delirium set in. He felt like he was being carried by his mother. One of those fleeting moments, when he was sick, when she would show affection.

Even though Jaskier had a cushy childhood, perhaps the biggest downside would be how little his parents cared. They cared a lot about boasting, being better than everyone else, and keeping up a reputation. But truly, they never really cared about him much. But what they lacked in care, they made up for in knowledge.

Any and every kind of knowledge was available to him at his disposal. And being a curious kid that he was, being able to learn was great. One does not simply become a bard of seven colleges, effortlessly.

Jaskier knew a lot about a lot of things. But perhaps one that he knew both theoretically and practically, was mushrooms. He always liked mushrooms. They always grew in his mother's garden. And the gardener was the first to teach him about the poisonous and the non poisonous ones, after he had the misfortune of foraging some horribly poisonous ones which had him in bed for weeks.

Ofcourse, being a travelling bard and more often than not, finding himself on peculiar roads with no food in sight, Jaskier learnt quickly on how to forage mushrooms. Eventually when Geralt came along, he also added to his ever growing knowledge on mushrooms.

But perhaps the biggest contributor was Yennefer. She never taught him which mushrooms he could eat. No. But she did teach him about several severely lethal and often fatal mushrooms. And how one could potentially use them for murder. Ofcourse she had shared them after he had told her a story about a particularly unsavory fight he had had with the Witcher.

Jaskier couldn't tell if it was the delirium or if he was seeing things, but he could swear that the mushrooms growing on the ground looked eerily similar to a species Yennefer had taught him. The perfect disguise, she had called them. White mushrooms with button stalks. Seemed like the regular ones. But these were packed with poison that could kill a mortal in the matter of hours. Regardless, Jaskier tried his best through tied fingers to pick them out and put them into his pocket.

Eventually, they returned to the crevice they had found. He saw two of the soldiers set up the fire. And he saw them heat up some sort of stew they had brought along. This was the perfect opportunity. He should just slip them into their food. And he would have. The only thing stopping him was the fire.

As he looked into the fire, the only thing he could see was Rience’s grin. The joy he felt on burning Jaskier. He could feel the tips of his fingers burning. He could feel the fire in his veins this time. It was so much worse. His breath quickened. He had to throw these in the pot. That was his only option.

That was the only way to keep the soldiers off of Ciri’s back. Geralt might even be proud of him for doing that. He wouldn't be the useless bard Geralt would trade for a horse.

He tried to scoot closer to the flame under the pretext of warming himself. No one even glanced his way. The warmth felt nice. It wasn't too long until the warmth went from nice and cozy, to fire. He could feel his pulse quicken.

He calmed himself. He remembered the breathing technique Yennefer had taught him, after a particularly harrowing episode. Breath for four counts, hold for four and breath out for eight. He kept slowly breathing, as he kept going closer.

The painful flashbacks kept startling him, Rience, Geralt. Just everything. But this time, for the first time in a long time, he didn't feel like he was alone. He could hear Yennefer’s soft voice telling him that none of it is real. Rience wouldn't hurt him. Rience wasn't really here. He kept playing with the dirt under his fingers as he crushed the mushrooms in his palm. He wasn't with Rience. He was here. In the valley. With mushrooms. He kept repeating that to himself.

He looked around. Making sure no one saw him, he threw the mushrooms in the almost done stew and slowly went back. He could feel his whole body shake with effort as he tried to keep himself under control. It was agony, worse than anything he had felt. Suddenly everything felt so much more real. This had to work. If it didn’t, he had nothing left to give. He waited with bated breath as he watched the soldiers gather and each have their own portion.

Margrave looked at the meagre portions of the stew. It wasn’t much, but it was warm food. He looked at the others. Their exhaustion was written on their faces. He was older, the others were youngins, bare bones lads Nilfgaard had scraped up. He had a boy this age too. He knew how big his son’s appetite got. Margrave wasn’t that hungry anyways. He portioned the stew into three portions and gave it to each of the lads. He didn’t know whether they’d survive this ordeal, but if they did not, he’d rather they were well fed. The boys looked at him confused, but took the bowl nonetheless. He chewed on the bread as they all had a hearty portion of the stew. He decided to take the first watch and let the boys get some rest.

Jaskier watched as the general had none of the stew. Had he figured it out? Did he know? Would he kill Jaskier now? Jaskier could feel his blood pumping through his veins, and sweat matted on his forehead. He was so close. He watched as the rest of the soldiers sat around to try and take a nap. He was so close. He had to get this right. He had to stop them.

Jaskier kept a watch on all the soldiers. Nothing seemed to happen. Did he get the mushrooms wrong? Fuck. He had one job, one thing that would have turned the tables, and ofcourse he fucked it up. Ofcourse he couldn’t do anything right. Maybe Geralt was right, all he could do was shovel more problems for Geralt to deal with. Gods. He understood why Geralt wasn’t so keen on having him around. He couldn’t tell apart something as simple as mushrooms apart. He couldn’t really keep his eyes open. He was so tired. He wanted to be done.

Margrave kept a watch on the surroundings. It was unnatural how peaceful this valley was, as if there wasn’t just bloodshed and it wasn’t just filled with screams a few hours ago. Maybe the wind that howled, still carried the agony as a reminder. He shuddered. He couldn’t wait to get out of here. He didn’t even care about the girl anymore. Something sinister laid in this valley, and he was lucky he had not met with it yet. He had a feeling the longer he invaded into the valley, the more the valley would retaliate. He just wanted to do his job, and if the bard became more of a weight than he could pull, he would have no qualms cutting him down where he stood.

He heard a cough. Owin was having a coughing fit in his sleep. The boy would be lucky to not catch consumption if he survived the valley. He walked over to Owin, and stopped in his tracks. Owin was foaming at the mouth. He instantly moved him and tried to wake him up, and then he looked over to Styn and he was foaming at the mouth as well. What the actual fuck. He went to grab his water bag and tried to wake Styn up.

He could see both Styn and Owin coughing up foam. He immediately got to his feet, his dagger held close. He turned Styn over, and patted his back harshly to get him to throw up whatever it was, to no avail. He saw, as Styn’s eyes started to slip close. Gunter also laid beside, looking deathly pale, his lips blue and his skin cold to touch. Owin was nearby trembling with tears lining his eyes. His eyes moved to the bard.

Jaskier had been quietly watching the soldiers. He felt disgusted of himself. He was a monster. He killed soldiers probably just carrying out their duty out of obligation to the throne. They looked young too. And they probably had family waiting for them. Their family would keep waiting to no avail. His heart was thumping so loud he could barely hear anything else over it. He saw the General try and help the soldiers but he knew it was already too late for them. A shiver ran through his spine as they locked eyes. The General stalked towards him with thunder in his eyes.

Jaskier tried to get up to his feet, but he was so wobbly and dizzy. He had lost a lot of blood and he was so dazed. The General raised him up the his collar.

“What the fuck did you do you little shit?”

“I don’t know what happened, I didn’t do anything.” Jaskier pleaded trying to escape, but he had a stone grip.

“The fucking Witcher killed my entire party and now you dare to kill the last of my lads? What the fuck did you do?” Margrave held his dagger against the bard’s neck, immediately stopping his squirming. The dagger glinted in the moonlight.

He had lost a lot of men tonight. A lot of families had lost, perhaps their sole breadwinner. Entire towns had lost a whole generation, such is life. But with these four lads, it was different, they had lived. It was his responsibility to bring them home safe. He owed them more, than perhaps even what he owed the king and his quest to get this girl. He owed their families. And he knew this fucking bastard killed them. He didn’t know how. It didn’t matter. Neither the girl mattered, nor the Witcher. How dare this bard attack his men? He was going to make sure this Bard died in more agony than he could ever imagine.

Margrave dragged Jaskier by his hair out into the open. He could hear Jaskier pleading and begging him to let go. He dragged Jaskier and threw him out into Owin. Owin laid there, with no breath in his body, and his lips blue. His eyes open.

“Look into his eyes. You killed him. Look him in the eyes.”

Jaskier fell on to the cold body of Owin. He never noticed by Owin had quite piercing blue eyes. He was once again dragged to face Styn.

“Look them all in their fucking eyes you murderer. You’re a monster. You are the reason why their parents will always wait by the door.” Margrave yelled as he threw Jaskier on Gunter.

“This was Gunter. He liked to read. He was one of the few boys who could. He also liked to play flute when he got the chance to. And Styn’s favorite food was marmalade. Owin liked to go catch fish and cook in his free time. Gunter had a younger sister who he liked to read stories to. And now she’s never going to hear one of his stories. Look him in the eyes.”

Gunter had one of the greenest eyes he had ever seen. And they looked dead. Because he was dead. And Jaskier did this. He killed. He finally became a monster.

“I am going to kill you and then I am going to kill that Witcher and then I will kill that girl.”

Hearing Ciri’s mention woke Jaskier up. This man could hurt her and all this would have been for nothing. He couldn’t let that happen.

“I will gut them and I will make it painful. I will let them know that you caused all this pain. I will make it so that even in their last moments they will curse you bard. But first, you pay.”

The bard draped himself over Gunter and sobbed loudly. He was almost incoherent. Perhaps the valley got to him. Saying sorry over and over again. Apologies. What did they mean in the face of the irreversible? Nothing. Less than garbage. Apologies wouldn’t bring them back. But he would let the bard beg and grovel before he made him pay.

The bard’s sobs got more incoherent and inconsolable. As if looking into their dead eyes made him realise his actions. So far, he had thought of the bard as an unwilling pawn, a bystander. But now he knew better. He never understood how a bard such as this one could ever give company to a monster like the Witcher. But now he knew. The bard was a monster himself. At least the Witcher never pretended to be human.

He was about to bring his own dagger down, when he saw Jaskier turn and a sharp pain lodge into his chest. He saw Jaskier’s eyes widen and looked down, to see a smaller dagger lodged into his heart. He stumbled backwards. Jaskier pushed him down, and kicked his dagger out of his hand and picked it up.

“Don’t come near me, and don’t you fucking dare to go behind Ciri. I won’t let you.”

Margrave would avenge his men. If that was the last thing he did. He looked at the bard, skittish like a deer. He had killed many in his time, and he would make sure he’d get this one too. He dug out the dagger lodged into his chest with his two hands. He flicked it away. He was going to kill the bard with his bare hands. He walked towards the bard.

Jaskier saw the sick smile on the general’s face as he took another step towards him. There was blood profusely flowing out of his chest, but it was as if that didn’t matter.

“Get back. Don’t come near me. Get away”

“Or what? You’ll kill me? Why don’t you just try?”

Jaskier held his dagger with both hands. He had fished it out of Gunter’s tunic. He was not going to lose when he came this far. With a scream Jaskier stabbed the General, not once but multiple times. He just kept stabbing over and over again and hitting wherever he could. He was not going to lose. He could feel warm blood flow over his fingers. Even in the dark he could see dark red staining everything. The smell of iron hung in the air and the screams had gone silent a long time ago. When he came to his senses, Jaskier realised the only sound was from his own screams. He looked down to see the general dead.

Jaskier got up. Trembling. He threw away the dagger. He got a few steps away, until his legs gave out. He was a monster. He really was a monster. He killed them. He killed them in cold blood. He had all of their blood on his hand. He sobbed. Geralt would hate him. Geralt would be disgusted by him. Geralt might strike him down where he stands. All he wanted to do was save Geralt. Now he’s become the monster. But he at least saved Geralt right? What would Geralt think? Would he care? Probably not.

He almost laughed at his own predicament. What a tragedy, he was still trying to save Geralt, even though Geralt would probably think this was good riddance. He still liked Geralt, even though to Geralt, he was nothing more than an annoying and probably unfit travel companion at best. And oh what a tragedy, Jaskier, the Bard of the Continent, would probably meet his end, in this dim dark valley surrounded by no one.