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When Jaskier first arrived at Oxenfurt Academy, he learned that it is one of the most historically significant schools on the Continent. It is, at the bare minimum, equally as significant as Aretuza or Ban Ard. The library in Oxenfurt is also the largest on the Continent, housing not just centuries-old tomes but also ancient Elven artifacts, artworks from masters long past, maps so old that only a select few members of staff were allowed to even look at them, and a theatre specifically designed for sky mapping. Jaskier has even heard rumours that there is a vault holding the most priceless artifacts located somewhere below the engineering wing.
So, when Yennefer of Vengerberg knocks on the door of his Academy apartment on a cool night in mid-Spring, holding a bloody rag to her forehead, he knows that this isn’t just a friendly visit.
“What the fuck are you doing here?” he hisses by way of greeting, dragging the swaying witch over the threshold before shutting and locking the door behind her.
“Checking on you,” she responds, pulling the rag back for a moment to check if the wound is still bleeding. The gash leaks sluggishly down to her temple. Jaskier can see where she has bled into her hair as well, the shadow of dried blood hastily wiped away.
“Sure,” he responds sarcastically, pushing her hand with the rag back to her head and leading her over to the kitchen table. He pushes her down into it and leans back against the counter.
She sighs dramatically, “I needed somewhere to hide for an hour so I can fix this,” she gestures to her head with the unoccupied hand, “And I figured you might be here.”
Jaskier huffs, aware of the implications of his being at the Academy so late in the season, “Fine, you can stay for an hour, but only if you promise not to curse me or implicate me in whatever it is you’ve done.”
“No need to curse you. Your face is already enough of a curse,” she retorts, putting the rag down and reaching into her satchel for a small hand mirror. A dull yellow light emanates from the bag when she opens it and disappears when she seals it shut again.
Jaskier watches as she props the mirror up and prods gently at the cut. Her fingertips glow a gentle purple and the smell of lilacs and gooseberries overlaid with something that smells like ozone permeates the air for a moment. When Yennefer pulls her fingers away, nothing remains but a small scar, so faint it would be unnoticeable if Jaskier wasn’t already looking.
Once she’s done, she heads to the basin by the kitchen window and rinses her hands in the cold water. She looks around the room, eyebrows raised at the litter and detritus of teaching scattered on every available surface. While she looks, Jaskier watches her.
She’s thinner than he remembers; her hair is lank and her eyes are sunken, more so than he’s ever seen her. Even her cheeks look hollow, as though she hasn’t been able to stop for a good meal in quite a while. There’s a smudge of blood on her neck, under her ear, and disappearing down into her blouse.
“Are you alright?” he asks, brain completely disconnected from his mouth.
She turns to look at him then, violet eyes taking in his rather disheveled form.
“I could ask you the same question, Bard.”
Jaskier shrugs at her before changing the topic, “You didn’t answer my question witch, why are you here?”
“I believe the question was, ‘What the fuck are you doing here?’ and I did answer it; I’m checking on you.”
Jaskier doesn’t believe her for a moment.
She picks up a half-empty bottle of wine sitting on the kitchen table and takes a swig. The sound she makes is surprisingly satisfying, even with a mouth full, and she inspects the label before taking another swig.
“I have cups you know,” Jaskier mutters.
“Yes,” she replies, “I’m sure you do, but do you have any food?”
Jaskier fixes Yennefer a plate of bread and cheese and sits across from her while she eats. It’s truly a messy affair, lacking in decorum the bard would expect from someone who has spent far more time than he has in lavish courts. She eats with her fingers, spilling crumbs across the plate and the table, washing mouthfuls down with the wine she pilfered before she has even finished chewing.
Halfway through her meal, Jaskier abandons the table to fill the small wooden tub in his room with hot water. He’s used to the god-awful lilac and gooseberry perfume that usually surrounds her like a cloud of noxious gas, but this time, sitting at his kitchen table, all he can smell is sweat, dirt and blood.
Once the tub is full, he moves the modesty screen blocking the window to the corner. Yennefer is watching him with raised eyebrows and a downward turn to her lips when he enters the kitchen again.
“You can wash up through there,” he says by way of explanation. He expects her to say something scathing in response, some witty repartee that characterises their constant verbal sparring.
Instead, she nods and pushes back from the table, unfastening her cloak as she goes.
“Thank you,” she says instead, “I appreciate it.”
*
He doesn’t exactly invite Yennefer to stay, but he doesn’t tell her to go either. He wants to be angry at her; she’s a reminder of Geralt, of everything that set Jaskier’s broken heart in throbbing motion. He wants to blame her for being half the reason he has always been left waiting; either waiting to be saved or waiting for Geralt to return from her bed, smelling of the sickly sweet lilac and gooseberry perfume instead of smoke and metal, horse and onion. But it’s not her fault, not entirely.
The witch returns to the front room with damp hair, wearing a pair of Jaskier’s breeches and a chemise, both of which hang off her frame. He frowns at her but says nothing and she joins him on the armchairs in front of the hearth.
“Alright,” she says at last, breaking through his inner monologue and the stifling silence they linger in.
“Alright,” he agrees.
“Are we going to talk about it?” she asks.
Jaskier sighs, “About what?” He knows what.
“Geralt.”
He leans forward then, resting his elbows on his knees and looking at the fire instead of her. He feels old, bone-weary, and ancient; tired.
“There’s nothing to talk about.”
“Bard,” she begins, “Do you love him?”
Jaskier sits back, mouth forming a hard line as he squints at her, attempting to ascertain the real reason she’s here; not just in Oxenfurt, but here, in his apartment. He doesn’t even know how she found out where he lives.
Her hair is outlined in a fiery halo from the hearth, eyes washed clean of kohl and startlingly large for it. She’s beautiful, he decides, but it’s not something he didn’t already know. Yennefer of Vengerberg hasn’t changed in all the time he’s known her, and she will continue to be unchanging as he grows grey and wrinkly. He tugs on the ends of his own hair, knowing that there is already grey starting to sprout through the brown behind his ears. Her face tells him nothing other than that she means what she says, but he still isn’t sure he can trust that. It hurts, to realise that he is enough of a mess over one man, that said man’s ex-lover felt the need to come and check on him like some unruly toddler.
“Did Geralt send you?” he asks in lieu of an answer.
Yennefer sighs, and the corner of her mouth twists up in a tragic half-smile.
“I don’t need your pity Yennefer,” Jaskier spits.
“Oh, shut up,” she snaps back, “He didn’t send me. I haven’t fucking seen him since that godforsaken mountain.”
Jaskier blinks at her, “Oh.”
“So, Bard,” she sighs, seeming to deflate before him, “Do you love him?”
Her big purple eyes peer at him so earnestly that it reminds him, for a moment, of Cirilla. The hope in her voice is unmistakable. Jaskier doesn't understand it; doesn’t understand why she’s here and what she hopes to gain by prying this out of him. He doesn’t know why he’s tangled up in a lover’s quarrel that will long outlive him. He’s just here. Always, always right there, to watch it all happen and write a silly little song about it that probably won’t outlive them either.
He turns away from her, knowing that if he looks long enough, she could just take the answer from his mind. It feels like a pointless endeavour; it’s right there in every song he’s ever sung, every poem and story he’s ever penned. The collected works of his life are a dedication, a benediction, an ode of devotion to one Geralt of Rivia.
“Yes,” he hisses, the thin scab over his heart cracking and bleeding through in his voice, “Do you?”
Yennefer makes a pained noise, “Yes,” She croaks, “But I can never be sure if it’s really me, or if it’s Destiny.”
Jaskier’s answering laugh is humourless. He wants to understand her point of view, it’s part of being an artist, to understand a feeling and be able to express it back to an audience in song. To a point, he can recognise that, of the very few things he knows about Yennefer of Vengerberg, having someone else’s will forced upon her is intolerable. But gods what he wouldn’t give to having something tethering him to Geralt.
And he hates himself for it.
“Destiny is a fickle bitch then.”
If she rests her head on his shoulder and he takes her hand, neither of them mentions it.
*
As soon as class is finished, he dismisses the first years, begs off his office hours, and sneaks back to his apartment, hoping to avoid any and all of his colleagues.
He breathes a sigh of relief when the apartment door closes and locks behind him.
“How was class?” he hears from the bedroom.
Jaskier strides across the small living area and kitchen to stand in his doorway, heart in his throat. Yennefer is still dressed in his clothes, the neckline of his shirt loose around her collarbones. She sits at the window with his hairbrush, running it gently through her hair.
“Uh,” he splutters, “It was fine.”
“That’s good,” she says warmly, smiling at him.
“I was late,” he tacks on, brain, once again, disconnected from his mouth.
She snorts at him then, face briefly lighting up in her laughter. He’s never seen Yennefer with her walls this far down before; he didn’t think it was possible. She looks so young, and it does not help him reconnect his brain, at all.
“I thought you might have left in the middle of the night,” he blurts out, immediately smacking his hand over his mouth and turning bright red.
Her smile disappears as quickly as it had formed and for a moment, she looks like the Yennefer from his memories; cold, distant, and always slightly angry.
“I’m sorry,” he stammers out, stepping further into the room and reaching out his hand as if to touch her, then thinking better of it and pulling back. His heart drops off a cliff at the thought of being alone again, “I’m sorry, you don’t have to go. I wasn’t thinking-”
Yennefer holds up a hand to cut him off, eyes softening, “Shhh, it’s okay.”
She puts down the brush and beckons him over, taking his hand very slowly and purposefully in her own, “He really did a number on you, didn’t he?” She squeezes his hand for a moment and Jaskier thinks it’s meant to be comforting but mostly he just feels pitied again.
“How long are you planning on staying in Oxenfurt?” he asks instead, turning to his dresser to search for a clean shirt just so he doesn’t have to look at her earnestness and accidentally show how desperate he is for any connection to his old life.
“I should probably get going soon, actually,” she hums from the window, making no effort to get up from her spot on the sill. She closes her eyes and breathes in the sun and salt and smells of the city. Jaskier takes a moment to admire her; she’s soft like this, hair shifting in the breeze and sun catching on her eyelashes. He thinks, maybe, once upon a time, she may have had freckles. He can imagine her with them. It makes something in his chest ache; something entirely separate from the grief that threatens to tear him asunder every time he allows himself a stationary moment.
Jaskier hums back his reply and pulls his doublet and chemise off with little fanfare, quickly yanking the fresh tunic over his head.
He looks up from righting his cuffs to find Yennefer staring, mouth slightly parted and a small furrow between her brows.
“Can I help you?” he asks confusedly.
She turns away from him and closes her mouth, “Only in as much as you can show me where to get something to eat around here before I go.”
Jaskier takes Yennefer to Priscilla’s apartment for lunch. It’s where he was planning on being after class today anyway, and he needs some sort of reprieve from the bubble of earnest vulnerability he’s found himself trapped in with the mage. Priscilla answers the door with a smile on her face and a wide-eyed look at Jaskier that makes him promise to spill all the beans when he can.
“Hi, I’m Priscilla,” she chirps, holding a hand out to Yennefer, “But please, call me Priss.”
Yennefer takes her hand with a smile of her own and introduces herself, “Yennefer. Thank you for the lunch invitation, I really appreciate it.”
At the mention of their lunch guest’s name, Priscilla shoots Jaskier a surreptitious glance, eyebrow raised in question. The bard can read every one of Priscilla’s facial expressions and he waits for her to blurt out the question he’s dreading.
“Oh, it’s nothing,” Priss says, “I actually had no idea the Yennefer of Vengerberg was coming for lunch.”
At this, both women shoot Jaskier a filthy look and Yennefer steps back towards the door. Jaskier wants to sink through the floor boards and disappear forever.
“Please, don’t let me intrude then-” but Priscilla is already waving it off and dragging the witch back into the room.
“It’s really fine,” she says, “You’re welcome here.”
The blinding light of Yennefer’s answering smile fills Jaskier with enough warmth to feel as though he’s stepped into a hot bath.
Lunch is, as always, a simple affair, but it’s good. And Jaskier won’t ever complain about sharing a meal with a friend or two. The women talk to each about the Academy mostly; Priscilla tells stories of the students in her classes and the messes she and Jaskier got into as students themselves, while Yennefer regales her with the history of the school and some of her own lighter stories from Aretuza. There aren’t many, Jaskier knows, but one of two is enough to begin to understand the shape of her life.
“-so Valdo’s standing on the table absolutely shrieking, demanding that this idiot,” Priscilla gestures to Jaskier across the table, “Be expelled immediately for ‘moral indecency and conspiracy to commit sabotage,’ or some tripe like that.”
“We had exams the next day,” Jaskier interjects.
“So the fact someone had taken a shit inside his lute was definitely problematic,” Priscilla finishes.
Yennefer snorts out her laughter before quickly covering her mouth and staring wide-eyed at the two of them. Jaskier’s answering grin is smug and Yennefer sticks her tongue out at him like a child.
“So,” the witch says, “The big question is, who left a shit in the Troubador of Cidaris’ lute?”
Jaskier shrugs, “He wasn’t of anything at that point, this was only our third year.”
Priscilla rolls her eyes.
“And obviously I wasn’t expelled so it wasn’t me,” he continues, brushing invisible dust from his shoulder and fixing his shirt cuffs.
Yennefer clears her throat and throws Priss a pointed look.
Priscilla shrugs, “Wasn’t him,” she confirms, and then a wicked grin spreads across her face, “It was me.”
Yennefer stares at Priscilla wide-eyed for a moment before bursting into laughter. She laughs so hard she has to hold onto the back of Priscilla’s chair, tears streaming down her face.
They end up staying with Priscilla until dusk. The trouboritz and the mage become fast friends, and Yennefer trails behind Jaskier out the door with a small package of food from Priscilla and a promise to drop by when she next finds herself in Oxenfurt. Priscilla kisses Jaskier on the cheek and holds him close for a second longer than normal.
“Details,” she whispers as she lets him go. He rolls his eyes but smiles with a nod.
The walk back to Jaskier’s apartment is in silence. The closer they come to his front door, the more the awkward, earnest bubble grows back around them.
“Is it alright if I come and visit again?” Yennefer asks, inspecting her nails as they walk.
Jaskier tries to well up some of the previous animosity he’s felt for Yennefer over the last twenty years, but finds it strangely lacking. He shrugs, “If you want to.”
She bumps her shoulder into his as they walk, and neither says anything else about it.
“I do have one more question,” she asks, once they’re back over the threshold, "What do you know of Nilfgaard?" Her voice is quiet and serious, belaying the carefree tone of earlier.
“Not a lot,” Jaskier admits, “Still likely more than the average person.”
He digs around in a stack of books and notes on the side table near the front door and yanks out a small clothbound tome titled The History and Geography of Nilfgaard, and flips through a few pages before stopping.
“Nilfgaard is, at its core, a very large piece of the Continent, with borders chopping and changing every year. The empire of Nilfgaard consists of Toussaint, Mettina, Ebbing, Gemmera, Nazair, Vicovaro and Maecht as vassal states. The capital is located south of the Alba river, and is known as ‘The City of Golden Towers’” Jaskier rattles off, “It’s a wealthy country with a strong diplomatic history, and was run by House var Emreis, until the Usurper overthrew the Empire’s Imperator, Fergus var Emreis to seize the throne for himself. Under the rule of the Usurper, Nilfgaard annexed Ebbing in 1239, Metinna in 1241, and Nazair by 1246. By the 1250s, Maecht had also been conquered.”
Here, Jaskier pauses for a moment and looks up at Yennefer, “Want me to keep going?” He asks.
She hums and waves her hand dismissively. Jaskier closes the book and puts it back on the pile.
“The emperor’s son escaped the Usurper,” she says after a moment.
Jaskier nods, “Yes, the emperor of Nilfgaard is Emyhr var Emreis now,” Jaskier scratches his chin thoughtfully for a moment, “He seems to have managed to maintain its strength despite multiple coups, both that of the Usurper and his own. Though where he appeared from is quite the mystery. There is potential that, with the var Emreis family returned to the throne, Nilfgaard will want to maintain its stability for a few decades.”
Yennefer frowns at him, “Surely you’re smart enough to know better than that.”
Jaskier shakes his head, “I don’t understand what you’re trying to tell me Yennefer,” he says, “Just spit it out.”
She sighs and starts pacing. If Jaskier didn’t know any better, he would almost think she was nervous. Just as soon as it starts, she stops, turning to face him.
“There are rumours that Nilfgaard is advancing again,” she finally says, “Towards Cintra.”
Jaskier takes a moment to let the words sink in. They don’t.
“What?” he chokes, taking a step back and leans against his front door. He can’t believe he hasn’t even managed to make it into the apartment properly yet.
Yennefer steps forward and grabs his elbow, steering him into the sitting room and depositing him on the settee he’d fallen asleep on the night before. She starts pacing in the space between the small couch and hearth.
“Triss Merigold has been in touch,” Yennefer says quickly, “King Venzlav recently sent an envoy to Vizima with news of Nilfgaard’s advancement towards Cintra. They’ve been spotted near the Amell Mountains.”
Jaskier sits forward, “That’s still Nilfgaardian territory,” he says, “It’s not indicative of anything.”
She turns to face him then, looking him in the eye. For a moment, he forgets to blink. The room is gone from his eyes and he sees his childhood home in Lettenhove. It’s an old memory, barely a glimpse, more of an image. It’s gone as quick as it arrived, replaced by his sisters around the breakfast table, laughing and talking over each other. He remembers this moment, from right before he left for Oxenfurt University. The eldest, Kristina, was so proud of him for being accepted into the college. Mira was proud too, in her own way. Only a year older than him, but proud that he would be free. And little Jane, the youngest. She idolised him. She had wanted to be just like him; to set out and forge her own path. He remembers looking at them that day, his sisters, and for a moment, his heart aches with longing.
The scene fades, and he sees a much younger Priscilla and Essi, their arms around each other’s shoulders in the courtyard of the Novigrad theatre after their first show. It changes again, and he sees the two women and Valdo Marx, still young, laughing around a table at The Nowhere. He sees the Countess de Stael, in the moment he first saw her all those years ago, sitting in the gardens of her estate, in a small patch of sunlight. Her hair and the roses around her blowing and waving gently in the wind. He sees Shani waving at him as she passes through the Tretogor gate, turning back to wave at him before joining her section with the other medical corp officers of the Redanian military.
He sees Geralt. He sees the witcher sitting in the tavern in Lower Posada, brooding over his mug of shitty ale in the half light of the dank tap room. He sees Geralt again, speaking with Filavandrel to protect him. He sees Geralt again, riding atop his horse as they amble along the path. He sees Geralt bleeding, and bruised, eyes black and hair blacker with ichor, crawling back into their campsite. He sees Geralt again, meditating on his knees in the corner of a no name inn room. He sees Geralt asleep in a pallet of straw, in the top of a barn. He sees Geralt tearing into a rabbit over a fire, the stars spread out above his head into an endless galaxy. He sees Geralt again, in a bath in Cintra, and then again dressed finely at Calanthe’s court in Cintra. He remembers that night vividly; the nobility of him, to help Duny, the Urcheon or Erlenwald, and the strength to save Princess Pavetta from herself. He remembers how uncomfortable Geralt had been, how overwhelmed his senses surely were with all the sights and sounds, and yet he had still attended with Jaskier. He remembers finding Geralt next to the lake, frazzled and drained, on a wire’s edge, desperate for sleep. He remembers the roof caving in on the manor in Rinde, and his heart breaks all over again, not because he thinks Geralt is dead this time, but because he knows what comes after. He sees Geralt in Flotsam, sitting across the table, actually smiling at something Jaskier had said. He sees the witcher wrap his arms tightly around another man, Eskel, outside Maribor, laughing as he lifts the other witcher off the ground. He sees Geralt in the audience, his eyes warm as Jaskier plays for their supper. He sees Geralt leading Roach out of a stable, whispering softly to her.
He sees Geralt, sitting on the side of the road outside Oxenfurt, at the Novigrad Gate, Roach grazing behind him. He stands when he sees Jaskier cross the bridge. He sees Geralt open his arm, smiling, and tucking Jaskier briefly into his chest.
“What are you doing to me?” he breathes.
Yennefer does not reply. He feels the gossamer tendrils of her magic float deeper. More memories arise.
He sees the tiny baby Cirilla, a year after the disastrous feast in Cintra. Platinum blonde and bright green eyes staring intently at him. He sees her again, a loud and rambunctious toddler running up and down the halls of the Cintran Royal Castle, ducking past her mother and around her father, who laughs after her. Her parents are packing for a trip to Skellige and she’s weaving between servants and crates as they’re packed. He sees her at 4, still dressed in black and quieter than he can ever remember seeing a child. She holds his hand, and asks him to play the harp for her. He doesn’t know how, and when her eyes begin to water, he vows to learn. When she is 5, she asks to know the story of the night her parents were engaged. She wants to hear of their love, from the eyes of a romantic. She wants to remember them as her parents, her family. As people who loved each other and loved her. He gives her as much detail as he can. At 6, she asks for stories from outside the walls of the castle, and he tells her about a brave man who fights monsters to protect the people. She is awe-struck at the stories and asks for another, so he tells her of a mage with raven hair and violet eyes. She asks for another and then another, and then one more please. He tells her all the stories he can. He sees her at 8, running into his arms. He watches her brows furrow, and her tongue peaks out as she attempts to show him what she had learnt on the harp in his absence. She’s terrible. She asks him how it sounds and he tries to tell her it's good, but she mostly just laughs at him. He sees her wielding a broomstick and threatening the palace guards, trying to goad them into a sword fight. His heart aches.
“Yennefer,” he snarls, standing from his spot on the couch, but otherwise unable to see. His heart is thundering in his chest, goosebumps break out across his skin, and sweat soaked into the back of his shirt and behind his knees, “Stop it.”
It doesn’t stop. Instead, it changes.
He sees fire. This is not a memory. This is something else. He sees blood. The warmth of the flames is so tangible he can feel his face burn. The smell of gunpowder and burning flesh fill his nose and mouth, and he is choking. The screams intensify. They sound almost familiar. And then he hears someone scream his name. It’s Jane. And then another scream; his mother. Another, Essi, and then Priscilla. And then a man’s voice. In his mind, he turns. The flames cover a city, and he is in the midst of it. Fire licks up and swallows the buildings on all sides. A heavy rumble fills the air, and gets louder, adding to the roar of the flames. He hears his name called again, a man’s voice, desperate and panicked. In front of him, shadowed by the flames, stands a man with his sword raised. Long hair hangs around his head, dampened by blood and sweat. The head turns, and Jaskier meets piercing amber eyes, filled with dread and fear.
“Jaskier!” Geralt calls over the rumbling of the approaching army, “Please, run!” Flames push forward. Geralt is swallowed.
“No!” Jaskier screams.
The scene evaporates. Standing in front of him, still looking him in the eyes impassively, is Yennefer.
“You bitch,” he hisses, stepping around his seat and as far away from her as the room will allow.
She sighs but makes no move towards him. He doesn’t think he could stand it if she tried to touch him just now. His skin still burns as though standing too close to the conjured flames. He’s shaking, every muscle in his body trembling as though under some impossibly heavy weight.
“I’m sorry,” she says instead, her eyes softening sadly, “But is trusting Nilfgaard really a risk you are willing to make?”
Jaskier leans back against the wall and covers his eyes, so Yennefer can’t see that he is still crying. The scenes rattled him, all the way down to the marrow of his bones. He can’t think through the memories still floating behind the palms of his hands, and he presses them to his eyes. The screaming still echoes in his head, and he chokes on his next sob before it can break through the block in his throat. He cannot do anything about his shaking knees however, which give out on him. He folds in on himself against the wall, hands still pressed over his face, breath still rattling in his lungs as he tries to breathe evenly.
He hears her move across the room and sit next to him on the floor. Her warmth and weight next to him does little to alleviate the fear and grief.
She’d cut him open for this. She’d cut him open and shown him all the people he loved, and then she burned them all up. He wants to hit her. His hands curl into fists and he knuckles his eyes, pushing into them until white bursts behind his eyelids instead.
“Cirilla is beautiful,” she whispers, “She looks so much like her mother.”
Jaskier pulls his head up and looks at her incredulously. How dare she.
“I need your help,” the witch continues, “Cirilla will need it too.”
That gives Jaskier pause. He sits back, and swallows. He thinks of Queen Calanthe, and how protective she is of Princess Cirilla. The babe would be almost a decade old now. He has missed her last few name day celebrations, and now he regrets it. He looks back at Yennefer, and finds that she is thinking of Geralt’s Child Surprise as well. There is a softness to her, at the thought of the child.
He thinks of Geralt, and how he had tried to hide the protruding softness at word of Cirilla whenever Jaskier returned from Cintra. How he hoarded stories of the young princess.
“Geralt won’t admit it, but he could use the help too.”
Jaskier thinks of Geralt on the mountain. “If life could give me one blessing, it would be to take you off my hands."
“No,” he says, heart leaping into his throat. He looks away, “Absolutely not. I’m not getting involved. I will not get involved in anything to do with him, especially not this.”
Yennefer stands abruptly and moves in front of the pile of embers that used to be the fire. Her eyes are wild, and the glint of true rage crackles through the air. Jaskier stands to. If she means to burn him up, he will be turned to ash on his feet, thank you very much.
“There are more soldiers in Emperor Emyhr’s army than men in the entirety of Cintra,” she hisses at him, “Calanthe might be the Lioness of Cintra, but she and the Cintran army are the only thing standing between Nilfgaard and the entire North.”
“And what do you think I can do about it, Yennefer? I’m a fucking bard for Melitele’s sake! What help could you possibly want from me?!”
She deflates.
“I need to break into the university library,” she says.
It’s enough to shock Jaskier out of the last of his misplaced grief for a moment.
“That’s why you’re in Oxenfurt,” he blurts out, “That’s why you came to see me!”
He feels the oily heat of anger and resentment rise in him. In less than a day she had managed to insert herself directly into his life, dragging with her all the baggage of the last twenty years, has rifled through his brain and hauled out old memories he’s spent half a year trying to bury, to stop the hole in his heart from bleeding him dry all over the fucking hearth rug. His blood simmers and he clenches his fists. She comes barging through his front door, and undoes all of his hard-earned progress, without even snapping her fucking fingers, just to tell him his entire world, already turned completely upside down, and all the people he desperately loves in it, are going to be scorched to ash, in spite of all the effort he’s put into reorienting himself.
He’s already been burned, and she made him feel like she cared, only to turn around, burn him again, and tell him it will all keep burning unless he helps her with… with…
“Fuck you,” he spits, “What do you fucking want? Why are you fucking here? And don’t give me that same bullshit about coming to check on me. We both know it’s a fucking lie.”
“Jaskier…” she begins, plaintively.
He shakes his head, “20 years we’ve been in and out of each other's lives. What has given you the impression that I wouldn’t at least hear you out if you told me the gods damned truth,” he bawls his fists up again, heart hammering in his chest. He has half a mind to kick her out instantly.
“Tell me the fucking truth so I can kick you the fuck out of my house.”
Yennefer seems taken aback for a moment, her face dropping briefly into shock before she schools it again.
“I need a book,” she says, “But it’s not easily accessed.”
This time, Jaskier raises an eyebrow, “Where is it?”
“The Lower Palimpsest Archive.”
Jaskier’s jaw drops, “The Black Stacks?”
Yennefer nods, “I can’t access them without a university professor’s ring.”
“Not just that,” he replies, “You also need the professor it’s attached to. What’s down there that you want so much? Couldn’t ensorcel some other poor chap from the engineering department to help you out?” he snaps venomously.
“I’m looking for defensive magic,” she says, refusing to rise to the bait, “My research has led me to a manuscript called The Laments of the Aen Seidhe: Songs Preserved from the First Settlements, which is apparently here. And why would I need some crotchety old arithmetic professor, when you’re right here?”
Jaskier grits his teeth, “I could go to prison for this,” he says, “They’ll lock me up on Temple Isle. The Black Stacks are restricted for a reason.”