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Not for the first time, Jaskier silently wondered if Geralt had ever wandered anywhere not drenched in bloodshed and horror. The longer he had travelled with the man, the more certain Jaskier was that the answer was no.
A wiser man would have recognized this as a sign to find a new travelling companion.
Beneath his weariness, Jaskier huffed a silent laugh. No one had ever accused a man in love of wisdom.
Thus, Jaskier found himself, dutiful and steadfast, at Roach’s side once more. Following Geralt across a battlefield, littered with charred corpses and rumours of fallen mages among them.
A raven-haired sorceress among them.
Jaskier shuddered as he looked again at the destruction around them. If half the awed, horrified whispers they’d encountered in their final approach to this place had been true? Much of the waste laid to the battlefield had come from that very witch.
Gods, she had always been scary.
From his position a few paces behind Geralt, Jaskier hovered near young Cirilla. The princess’s wide eyes were constantly sweeping across the space before them. Silently, she took in the ashen hillock that they strode across with a mixture of intrigue and quiet horror. Jaskier could hardly fault her disquiet. His fingers had been twitching where they rested around Roach’s reins ever since they reached the first vestiges of scorched earth.
Quivering with song and story under the heavy weight of this place.
Jaskier could not say he held any great love for Yennefer of Vengerberg.
From their very first meeting, the tumultuous mage had been, at best, a thorn in his side. More often, she was a painful reminder of the unrequited nature of his heartsick devotion. To speak nothing of the way they often grated on each other’s nerves.
Watching Geralt stomp around the ashen fields shouting her name didn't break Jaskier’s heart any less. Whatever jealousies he may have felt for the witch? The grim surroundings and Geralt's growing desperation left Jaskier drowning in a growing lake of grief, too.
To his core, Jaskier was a bard.
A poet.
No part of him could ignore the thousands of stories that dripped, bled, and screamed from the haunted earth around them. Sick with grief, loss, and anguish.
Jaskier wished he could ignore them. Pretend not to see the torment all around them. Forget the acrid stench of burning flesh that soured every ashy breath that threatened to choke him.
At last, as even Geralt's voice grew hoarse from shouting Yennefer's name, they happened upon a diminutive woman with a severe look on her regal features. Something in Jaskier froze at the sight of her. Unthinkingly, Jaskier moved slightly closer to Cirilla.
As his pale eyes followed Geralt’s long strides toward the brunette, Jaskier was bitterly aware of the truth they may find here. He met Tissaia de Vries once, a lifetime ago, when his identity was so incomplete he still answered to Julian.
She looked entirely the same and nothing at all like she did now.
As a child of ten and two, Jaskier could never have imagined the seemingly immovable, all-powerful Rectoress de Vries in the bedraggled and bereft state she appeared.
The usually immaculate chignon of her forested locks was askew. Her infamous, icy gaze had fractured. A new gorge cracked its surface, flooding the cerulean surface with the monsoon of her grief. Blood and soot streaked her porcelain skin and rumpled, torn gown.
She noticed none of it.
Faced with Geralt's desperate, furious demands, the indomitable Rectoress - dare Jaskier think it - allowed the barest of quaver in her reply. His soft heart clenched as he watched her throat bob. The thin bow of her upper lip minutely trembled as she seemed to gather her strength to reply.
"We won," The Rectoress began softly, jaw faintly quivering. Her feline gaze was entirely too bright under the glossy film of her tears. "Because of her."
A tremulous beat.
"She bought us time until the armies arrived."
Something heavy and cold settled in Jaskier’s stomach. His heart suddenly leaden. His chest was abruptly too tight to hold it. Stomach dropping, Jaskier’s body suddenly felt distant from himself.
Though the dreadful truth had not been said aloud, the terrible words unspoken and formless between them, there was no denying the damning truth.
Rumour, in this instance, had not just been rumour.
Unconsciously, his hands trembled. Oh. Somehow, despite the destruction around them and the mounting whispers as they’d approached the battlefield, Jaskier had not truly given credence to the tales. Surely, he had thought, Yennefer was not the sort to go out in a blazing sacrifice.
It was something he would have expected of Geralt, not—
Jaskier’s throat suddenly felt too tight. He silently told himself it was the smoky air getting to him. It was the cause of his stinging eyes, too, Jaskier was sure.
Though unsurprised by Geralt’s heartbroken bitterness, Jaskier couldn't help but wince at the harsh glower on Geralt's features as he strode forward to tower over the Rectoress’s diminutive frame. The cold contempt in his voice as he harshly spat, "Was it worth it?"
A single look at the Rectoress’s face more than gave her answer.
'Oh,' Jaskier thought, dizzy with shocked wonder. His heart shattered under sudden, terrible knowing as he saw the once larger-than-life sorceress watch Geralt furiously stalk away. Her too-blue eyes nearly overflowed with grief even as she refrained from replying. Lips pressed tightly together, forced to stillness.
It made no difference. The sound of the Rectoress's silence was deafening.
A high hum filled Jaskier’s ears. His fingers twitched again around Roach's reins. Oh.
She loved her.
Tissaia de Vries had loved Yennefer of Vengerberg. As much, if not more, than even Geralt had. And now?
Yennefer was gone.
Jaskier thought again of the whispers. Breathless, hurried gossip that spoke of a single patch of unburnt grass among the ravaged hill. Untouched by the awe-inspiring gout of flames that had been unleashed. Barely big enough to hold a crouching child, they’d said.
Jaskier’s pale gaze again took in the Rectoress’s diminutive form. He recalled again his surprise that Yennefer had come to this place at all. Let alone sacrificed herself.
Looking at the shattered woman before him? Jaskier suddenly understood.
Yennefer had loved Tissaia too.
Loved her, and likely kept it to herself all this time. Distantly, Jaskier wondered if Yennefer had been him in this instance. Silent and wanting, but unable to speak the words for fear of shattering what existed between herself and the Rectoress. It mattered little, in the end. Whatever her reasons, the truth was obvious, just the same.
Yennefer had not come here to save Sodden. Had not fought for some esoteric greater good, or the stability of the Continent.
She had come, had fought, had died, Jaskier thought with newfound ache, for Tissaia.
A mournful melody began to take form in Jaskier’s head. The first notes of a soliloquy - a eulogy - he had not been prepared to write.
Tears streaked, madly and unbidden, down his cheeks. He had never thought it would be like this.
Never imagined he would miss Yennefer of all people. Melitele, Jaskier hadn’t even considered that he would live long enough to miss her. As Geralt drew closer, he roughly scrubbed the tears away and forced down the sudden, lumpy sob in his throat. There would be time for it later.
At his core, Jaskier was a bard.
If this was where the witch's story ended? He would make it the greatest ever told.