Actions

Work Header

Dead I live

Summary:

...and dead I love....

 

Jaskier is captured and killed.
And resurected.
He does not know why, but a necromancer keeps him alive, and he dares not tell Geralt.

Notes:

Here it finally comes!! It will be rather dark but I aim for it to be sweet as well!
I am in need of motivation so feel free to yell at me in the comments or on tumbl <3
Please enjoy!

(See the end of the work for more notes.)

Chapter Text

The pain is unbearable.

His face is beaten bloody, at least three ribs are broken, his legs are cut and stabbed and beat until unrecognition.

The worst pain is his fingers. Bent and broken, one entire digit on his pinkie missing. All his nails are gone, his hard earned calluses cut away. He will never be able to play again.

There probably won’t be much of anything anymore. His most recent session with his torturers earned him a broken collarbone and bleeding ears. They are ringing loudly and he can feel hot blood dripping from his earlobe.

But none of that will matter for long.

The woman that stands above him is hooded. Her matted brown hair touches his face as she leans over him. She pulls his arms above his head, binds them in chains. He doesn’t have any energy to resist anyway, he just wants it all to end.

The contrast of her hair against his face and the cold chain digging into his chafed skin is making his head spin.
It could also be the blood loss but here’s to being optimistic.

The next thing he knows is a knife scraping against his ribs. Shoved down hard, plunged into him with cold anger. And there is some kind of chanting. His limbs spasm, the darkness and the cold coming in fast.

There is a flash of purple.

 

And then nothing

 

 

~

 

There is air. Pushing its way inside his lungs.

Cold.

Cold everywhere. Burning, spreading upwards, downwards, inwards. Everything burns.

With the new air he screams, hoarse, harsh. He finds he has fingers, and they are clenching, unclenching.

Stretching, reaching and then closing up again. Seeking a comfort that he knows will never be there.

His heart beats painfully.

Once.

Twice.

He gasps, he twists, he turns.

And then he opens his eyes. The world is hidden by a shade of grey. His eyes are so, so dry. He blinks, blinks again. The ringing in his ears comes back, slowly creeping up on him. No. He was supposed to be free.

The grey softens and he can see darkness past it. It’s not entirely dark, he realizes. There must be a torch somewhere, lighting up the stone ceiling far above.
He blinks again. The ringing in his ears settles into the background and he can pick up new sounds. His own raspy breathing, his own unsteady heartbeat.

And that chanting.

Then it burns again. Jaskier screams.

The world around him fades and again there is darkness.

~

Something is itching. There is a pressure around his ribcage, and something there is itching. He lifts a hand to do something about it but he finds that it is heavy. He struggles on, drags that hand towards his chest. His senses are muted, he senses more than he actually feels the bandages when his hand gets there.


Lamely he scratches. It doesn’t help. He scratches harder but it only gets worse. The itching spreads and it intensifies and fuck. It hurts.

His breath comes faster, panic is setting in. His heartbeat races and that hurts too. The muscles in his chest aches as they expand, working to keep up with his frantic breathing. His other hand scrabbles up towards his chest, he throws his head back and a sound escapes his throat.

Hands grab his, hot against his skin, and fear grabs him, tears in him.

“Jaskier. Shh. It’s alright.” A voice, low and rumbling, somewhere above him.

It sounds far away, it is hard to determine over the ringing. His hands are pushed to his sides, his skin is screaming at him. There was something familiar about that voice.

The hands stays over his, holding him down firmly. Jaskiers fingers twitch and shake, but his body is too heavy to fight. A scream claws in his throat, fightin to get out.

There is a thumb stroking his hand in soft, light circles.

Geralt. This is Geralt.

 

Is it real this time?

 

He can’t tell how the time passes. It might be seconds or hours, but the itching slowly recedes. Jaskiers vision returns, slowly. The grey mist is almost gone. He blinks.

That looks like stars. It couldn’t possibly be stars.

So many times he looked up at that cracked stone ceiling imagining them. And the sound of a campfire, crackling and popping as it devours the firewood. A friend just outside the line of his vision, watching over him.

But it was always stone. Always clanking chains. Dripping of moist along the walls. The silence between the cuts, his screams.

Is it really the stars?

He draws in a shaking breath, cold night air filling his lungs. Gods, it even smells like a night sky. He must be dead. Should be dead.

There is no way he would be able to get out of there.

There is movement somewhere on his right. His body tense up, ready for the pain.

“Jaskier.”

Geralt.

The familiar ache builds and his dry eyes does their best to tear up. He bites his lip, and his dry skin cracks and a drop of blood pushes through it.

He won’t allow himself to say his name.

“Are you awake now?” There is movement again and someone leans over him. White hair falling forward over pale skin. Jaskier blinks. That scar over his eye looks new.

His face blocks out the view of the would-be stars.

“Hello.” Geralt says, Jaskier can see his lips moving but the voice is far away, behind the ringing. “Thank fuck you are alive.”

Is he though?

There is still that cold, burning sensation. The itch between his ribs. The- wait. Fuck. The knife. There was a knife between his ribs, and a woman, and purple.

He starts hyperventilating again, straining against his bandages.

“Nononono Jaskier, easy, deep breaths. You are safe. Breathe.” Geralt's hand is on his shoulder and it’s burning hot. Jaskier is so cold. His heart is pumping hard, but it’s not enough and it gets dark around the edges.

Jaskier really did die. He must have.

The woman. She must have done something. She stabbed him, killed him, and brought him back. There are no stars. But there is a pull, almost like a string tied around his heart in a tight, tight knot. He can feel her presence.

The stars return. The white strands, the burning hand on his shoulder. Now that he feels the bond, the string rhythmically pulling at his heart, making it beat, he is calm.
He knows.

 

Jaskier did indeed not come out of there alive.

 

Chapter 2

Notes:

(See the end of the chapter for notes.)

Chapter Text

It’s not a heartbeat. It’s a tug. He can feel her fingers pulling the string.

He doesn’t tell Geralt.


Geralt thinks the chill in his skin comes from the shock, from the ‘trauma’. That first night of wakefulness Geralt takes care of him. They don’t talk. Jaskier because he can’t, Geralt because… well. He’s Geralt.

 

No fevers takes him. No infections. There is barely any fluid from the wounds, barely any blood. Geralt says nothing about it, but Jaskier knows it’s the string around his heart, iron grip on it’s precious blood.

His crooked fingers are a problem. He remembers the skin being peeled away, he remembers the glint of the knife and blood and the ringing.
But his skin is there, lined and pink and new.

 

The moment Jaskier is well enough to move, Geralt puts him on Roach. They ride every other day. Geralt wants him to rest, to heal, and Jaskier hasn't found his voice yet to protest. Slowly they move across the continent.

 

Geralt is looking for a healer. They find one in a hamlet, a wise old woman with strong herbs and soft magic. She takes one look at him and puts him to bed. Jaskier is so tired of resting, the rhythmic pulling so loud. The purple light when he closes his eyes.

The healer looks him over, every naked inch of him. She finds his scars, the missing digit on his pinkie. She finds the big one, badly healed, on his chest. Where he was stabbed. It anchors him somewhat to have it. She finds nothing wrong with him physically, and she is baffled. And she finds magic on him she doesn’t recognize. But it doesn’t matter for now.

 

For every day that passes Jaskier feels better, stronger.

The air is getting warmer, summer approaching, but Jaskier is still cold. He doesn’t feel cold, not the sort of shivering and clacking of teeth one might expect. Just, cold. Dull. Muted.

He still tense up sometimes. He still tense up around knives, the ringing in his ears rising up to drown everything else.

But the tugging isn’t unsettling anymore. It becomes familiar, a new beat to form himself around.

They stay with the healer. She insists to keep an eye on him, because even if his visible wounds are healing, there are hidden ones.

 

 

One summer night he sits in front of the fireplace.

It is lit, despite the heat of the season, Jaskier likes to feel the heat on his skin, even if it doesn’t sink in.

And they return to him. His words, his songs. It’s like the breaking of a dam.

He sits in the light of the fire, all alone. His mouth falls open and out tumbles a song. It’s hoarse, more of a croak really, after all this time. And of all the songs in his repertoar, it is the Fishmongers fucking Daughter. He has to smile, and for the first time in a long, long time, he lets his tears fall.

Fishmongers fucking Daughter pour out of him and he feels himself coming back.

He sings it three times, and then, just because he can, he sings Toss a coin. It’s not the same without a lute in his arms but it’s alright.

His stiff fingers pluck the air out of habit, timing it with the tugging beat of his dead heart.

He wonders what it would be like to play now, with a piece of his hand missing. He studies his hands, the white lines that are barely there anymore.

Maybe being dead isn’t the end.

Notes:

Thank you for your support <3 it means the world and keeps me writing!

Chapter 3

Notes:

TW panic attack

Chapter Text

As summer passes, he start to feel more like himself again.

The healer keeps a close eye on him, but the Path calls to Geralt and Jaskier refuses to be left behind.

They buy him a horse from one of the farmers. One secure calm thing and he names it Wilk. The gelding had a name, but it was such a boring and unfitting name. And who would Jaskier be if he accepted boring.

No, that’s not who he was. Is.

It is a strange thing to come to terms with, being dead but also not dead. And now that he has taken his first step, now that his voice is returned, he feels better about it.

More like himself.
Stradling Wilks wide back they set out on the Path again. With every sturdy step taken back out he feels it.

The songs, the melodies and harmonies.

He smiles, and Geralt watches him from Roach. It feels like home.

 

 

Jaskier sings under the stars. He plucks imaginary strings and he sings to the tugging of his heart and the crackling from the fire.

Leaning against a tree, cracking nuts open with the butt of his knife, Geralt watches him.

He watches Jaskier a lot these days, but it’s understandable. After that fucking mountain, after Jaskier being taken, almost dying.

Well. He did die.

But Geralt doesn’t know that. He thinks he dragged Jaskier from death's gaping maws.

In a sense, he did.

“We should find you a new lute.” Geralt comments suddenly. Jaskier had been thinking the same thing, but it still takes him by surprise.

“Are you saying you miss my playing?” Jaskier meant it to tease, but he finds he is curious.

“I do.” Is all Geralt offers, cracking another nut open and collecting the shells in a neat little pile.

”I'm not sure if I can” Jaskier admits silently. He looks at his hands. They look almost like normal except for his little finger on the right hand. But they are too smooth.

”Geralt. They broke my fingers. They cut away my calluses. And that might not sound like a lot but…” Jaskier trails off, letting his fingers search his hands. ”It will feel different. Sound different.”

They sit in silence for a few moments, each Lost in their own world. It’s Easy to fall back into that dark hole, to sink deeper and deeper until the present is out of sight, out of reach.

Jaskier blinks hard, shakes his head, lets go of his too smooth hands. He looks at Geralt, an anchor in the whirlpool of his mind trying to pull him under. That happened a lot in the beginning. He is better at it now.

”The next town is only a few days ride away. If you want to we can look for a lute. Or any instrument.”

Jaskier thinks about the offer. Geralt values his peace and his coin. For Jaskier not to have an instrument means that Geralt will have peace but none of them will have coin.

 

Unless Jaskier leaves.

 

Or get left behind… Or gets taken again.

 

 

The next thing he knows is Geralt's face in front of him, his hands on his shoulders.

There is a strange blackness around the edges, and he blinks. The ringing in his ears is so loud.

“Breath, Jaskier. Easy. Stay with me, alright? You are safe.”

Geralt takes one of Jaskiers hands and places them on his chest.

Slowly he takes a deep breath, Jaskier can feel it under his hand.

He realizes he is panting, or probably hyperventilating.

Oh.

He tries to regain control, tries to focus.

He stares at Geralt, afraid to even blink in case he will be gone and that fucking cracked ceiling will be there again.

Geralt's hand is warm over his, and as if he knows he pulls it upwards, so that Jaskiers cold, smooth fingertips can reach the soft, vulnerable skin of his throat.

It helped before, when panic took him. To feel the warmth and a real heartbeat.

To convince himself that it is real.

“Breath with me Jaskier. That’s it.” Geralt is so good to him, so patient.

Jaskier tries to match his breathing, tries to calm that frantic pulling on his heartstring.

He wonders if his sorceress can feel it. If it makes her smile.

“No. Focus on me.” Jaskiers eyes snap back to Geralt.

Purposefully he breathes in deep, slow. And he breathes out, the air hitting Jaskiers face and neck.

It helps.

 

 

For a long while they sit there.

Geralt pulls him out of the darkness, and when he feels the tight grip of fear eases up, he tilts his head back and watches the stars.

“I hate this.” He whispers hoarsely.

Geralt rearranges them so that Jaskier leans back against his chest. The warmth, the breathing, the smell of him.

It’s soothing.

“It will get better.” Geralt promises. “Maybe not tomorrow or even next year. But it will.”

Jaskier trusts him. It took them a long time to get here.

Another night like this, another fight with the dark and cold, and Geralt finally started talking. He told him about the trials of the grass, the cost of becoming who he is.

The years he and his brothers spent fighting not only beasts, but themselves.

So yes, Jaskier believes him.

His head rests at Geralt's shoulder, gazing up at the night sky.

“I was never any good at flute.” Jaskier murmurs and he smirks when he can feel Geralt chuckle behind him.

“Ever considered bagpipes?” Geralt asks.

“I like to live, thank you very much.” Jaskier retorts and pinches Geralt's thigh. Which is something he is getting to terms with. Not being alive but to live.

“Fine. How about a harmonica. That will keep you from talking all the time at least.”

“Oii!” Jaskier elbows Geralt in the ribs.

 

Chapter 4

Notes:

You know that feeling when you wake up, and suddenly you just know what to write?
I had that today. Im so friggin excited.

Today Im playing nice. Next time, uh.... well... :)

Chapter Text

It takes some time to track down a town with a decent music store.

Novigrad would be the obvious choice but they are far away, and they still don’t know exactly who took Jaskier in the first place and if they are still looking.

The store is not big.

The ceiling is low and is covered in displays for different instruments, stacks of note paper, books on theory, little jars with oils and rosin.

A good word for the shop would be cluttered.

Geralt pokes Jaskier in the side and points to one of the topmost shelves. A sad, forgotten bagpipe sticks out over the edge and Jaskier has to smirk.

The shopkeeper is a middle aged lady, she has woodflakes in her hair and she smiles awkwardly.

“Good afternoon.” Jaskier greets. “We are looking for a new instrument, preferably a lute.”

“How many strings would you like? I can take an order if you pay enough, but I have one almost done with thirteen. Just need to put the last touch of paint on it.”

“I would love to see it, if I may.” Oh dear mothers, she makes the instruments herself.

Jaskier feels a flicker of interest, a shadow of his former self rising for the occasion. Just a flicker, but it’s comforting no the less to still feel things other than cold numbness.

The woman nods and disappears into the back, probably to the workshop. Geralt touches his shoulder to Jaskiers, smiling softly.

“You sure you don’t want the bagpige?”

“I think you are right, my dear witcher, I should give it a go. I'm sure I would make a fortune on Toss a coin alone.” Geralt cringes, and Jaskier gives a victorious smile.

“Please don’t.” Geralt mutters sullenly as the shopkeeper returns.

She carries with her a lute, and despite being unfinished looking utterly beautiful.

He gets pointed to a small chair by the wall and she hands over the lute like it’s a baby.

Jaskier couldn’t agree with her more.

He settles it in his lap, caress the neck of it, adjusting for once again being allowed to play.

It’s been so long.

It feels right, the weight of it, the shape, the soft smell of fresh wood and paint.

Likely the instrument will cost a fortune, something he doesn’t have right now, but at least he is allowed to try it out.

He plucks the strings, tries out a melody. His fingertips sting a little when he changes chord.

The sound is clean, it rings out nicely. He can tell when the strings have a high quality, he closes his eyes and smiles, lost in his own bubble.

When he surfaces again the shopkeeper is staring at him.

“Who are you?” She asks, which is not the question he expected. He blinks in surprise and rests his hands on the strings.

“I'm Jaskier. Dandelion for some. Poet and bard from Oxenfurt.” Jaskier can see Geralt roll his eyes behind her back and realizes, oh, maybe he shouldn’t say too much. But her jaw drops, eyes widen.

“Jaskier, the Jaskier? Jaskier behind The Ballad of the Raven Maid? Jaskier, who wrote Silken Strands of Summer?”

Another something he didn’t expect. Pride swells in him, that his creations are so widespread.

He rises from the chair and gives her an elegant bow. He is not sure he can, but she blushes deeply enough for them both.

“That would be me, my lady. I'm humbled by such a fine craftswoman as yourself know of my work.”

She opens and closes her mouth a few times, so he sits down while she collects herself, plucks out a tune.

“It is indeed a lovely instrument.” He tells her, falling into his role as a showman. “How much would you like for it? When it is finished of course. I must confess to you, I might not be able to pay it all at once.”

All at once she changes, fleeing into her knowledge as a business woman.

He doesn’t haggle very much with her, and they agree on a fine price and a promise to come by with a collection of his poems next time he is in the area.

She needs to finish the painting before he can take it, so it will be a few days before they can bring it with them.

 

Returning to the inn, Geralt finds a notice board.

There is a contract up for a wraith by the graveyard, and so they have found a way to occupy themselves for the time being.

For once, Jaskier doesn’t beg to come. Being around this many people again is nice, but also exhausting.

They part, Geralt going to find the town's huntmaster and Jaskier for a small visit to a bookstore nearby. He needs to stock up on paper and ink again.

A sense of normality settles in him, doing familiar tasks even if it is in a new town. And when he returns to the inn where they hired rooms, takes a nap before meeting Geralt for dinner.

 

 

 

 

When Jaskier wakes up, his face is pressed towards the ground, pebbles and plants digging into his cheek.

His lungs are burning, his eyes are dry, and he can’t move.

 

Something is very wrong.

The tugging on his heart is violent, painful.

 

He is alone in the middle of a forest, and the sun is setting behind the trees.

 

 

Chapter 5

Notes:

The ladies are introduced! Finally!!
Thanks a billion to @Mayastormborn for helping me look through this before I publish!
Keep your eyes open, the plot is starting...

Chapter Text

Long nails tap against the wood.

Tap, tap, tap. Rhythmically, a steady beat.

Yennefer lifts an eyebrow, looking at the woman across from her.

She has long, dark brown hair. Her knuckles are pale, her skin a shade the color of old bones, but smooth and flawless.

The finger that is currently tap, tap, tapping against the table has a thin thread tied around it.

Her nails are perfect, painted dark red.

Her eyes are as deep and rich in color as her hair. Her nose is small and her cheeks are hollowed out, three freckles in a small triangle below her left eye.

Tap, tap, tap.

It’s getting annoying, like one of the magical clocks in the kingdom of Aedirn, always entering her mind and making her thoughts tick-tock.

Yennefer can’t stand her dramatics. But this is not her show.

 

Triss, Philippa and Sabrina stand with her around the table, all watching the pale woman with tight focus.

“This is not negotiable.” Triss says, her features schooled into a careful mask. “No.”

Philippa looks angry, mouth thinning out even more when she presses her lips together.

“Too bad.” Says the woman. “I had hoped that at least one of you,” the woman makes a deliberate pause, giving Philippa a look. Interesting. “-would not mind what I have to offer. But I can see when I have worn out my welcome.”

She stands up, the wood scraping against the stone floor. Yennefer notices the woman's finger twitching, an even rhythm again.

Odd. Almost as if she is compelled to do it.

The woman nods to each of them in farewell, turns her back to them and reaches for the door.

The nerve. The arrogance.

Yennefer fights the scowl that threatens to break out. The show is not over yet.

When the door is open, the woman stops at the threshold without turning.

“If you ever change your mind, you know where to find me, Philippa.”

And with a click of the door, she is gone. The room seems to exhale, the tap-tap-tapping tension gone and the four mages turn to each other.

“She sure seems to know you.” Sabrina comments, and all attention is on Philippa, who sighs and shakes her head.

“Basia and I have a past.” Is all she offers, walking around the table and with a wave of her hands seals the door with magic. It glimmers, ripples, like rain upon the surface of a pond. “I don’t like that she is here. We need to find out what she’s been up to. That woman tends to leave a lot of dead bodies in her wake.”

Triss folds her arms across her chest and looks troubled.

“And the fact that she is in these parts makes it our problem.” She says, looking around the table. “I don’t like it. She is a loose cannon.”

“I agree. Triss, look into any disappearances or anything out of the ordinary. Yennefer, Sabrina, I need you to go find her workshop. I have some people to talk to.”

Philippa throws around authority in a way Yennefer has never cared for, but for once she is willing to agree.

 

~~

 

Jaskier carefully rises from the dirt into a sitting position.

Slowly getting control over his limbs again, regaining feeling.

He is stiff, sore, his mouth tastes like ash. He’s not sure where he is, only that it’s quickly getting dark.

The trees around him are old and there is the distinct smell of disturbed earth.

He notices his feet are bare and he is wearing the same clothes he took a nap in.

His pinkie throbs as badly as the day they cut it off.

This can’t be good.

He looks down, examining the soles of his feet. They are pale, small cuts here and there, pine needles and leaves sticking to his skin. But no blood.

There is a sinking sensation in his gut. His throat is tightening and his eyes are prickling.

It looks wrong.

Feels wrong. Fuck, why is this happening?

Jaskier rubs at his feet, trying to regain some feeling. It takes a moment, but a small prickling sensation starts in his toes, traveling along his nerves. It’s not a very good feeling, but it gives him hope.
He swallows around the lump in his throat, trying to ignore the pain of the tugging, trying to control his breathing.

His heart is trying to pull him with it, trying to get him to move.

The feeling is urgent, but no. He is back, he has control of himself again. He is not going there.

The fear is like icy spears, keeping him sane.

Maybe he can retrace his steps? It doesn’t look like he was careful while getting here. But no. He is no tracker, he would only get more lost.
Jaskier curls into a ball against a tree trunk and hugs his legs.

Hopes Geralt finds him before any scavengers do.

 

 

The sound of shuffling and battle wakes Jaskier.

The stars are up by now, and there is a deep darkness among the trees. There is a yelp from what sounds like a dog or a wolf, and a grunt.

A very familiar grunt.

A heavy thud of a body falling to the ground, heavy breathing, and then shuffling steps.

“Jaskier?!” Geralt calls.

Relief. The relief is so strong air rushes from his lungs and he scrambles to stand up.

“Geralt!” He rasps out, and then Geralt rushes towards him, arms open.

That’s all it takes for Jaskier to break. A sob tears from him, and he throws himself stiffly into Geralt's chest. Arms wrap tightly around him, holding him close. Geralt is so warm, and Jaskier finally feels safe.
Whatever is tugging him somewhere won’t get to him when Geralt is here.

“What happened?” Geralt asks into his hair, squeezing him tighter.

“I don’t know. It’s all blank.” Jaskiers ear is pressed over Geralt's chest. Geralt’s heartbeat is normally slow. Right now it’s beating hard, faster than he ever heard it before.

“The door was open. Your shoes were still there. I couldn’t scent you, at all! I almost thought-... but then I saw your tracks. How can I not smell you?”

Then Geralt took a sniff of his hair. Which a year ago would make him laugh and his heart flutter. Now, it scares him. What if he smells like death?

“You have no smell. They took your smell.” Geralt whispers. And then again “What happened?”

Jaskier doesn't know what to say.

“I don’t know. I went to bed for a nap, and then I woke up here. I have no idea how I got here.”

“Can you walk?”

“I think so.”

Reluctantly Jaskier lets go and follows Geralt back towards the inn. They pass the bodies of three wolves, and another spike of fear pierces him.

It’s a long walk. It takes them the better part of an hour to see the shape of the town through the trees. They walk in silence and instead of knocking to be let in, they settle in the stable with Roach. It’s dark in there too, but

Geralt moves around without hesitation and sits Jaskier down on a footstool in a corner. He fetches a blanket used for the horses and wraps it around Jaskier’s shoulders. It’s slightly scratchy and hairy, and smells strongly of horse.

Geralt kneels in front of him and touches Jaskier’s bare feet.

“You are freezing.” Geralt says softly. “May I?”

Jaskier nods and Geralt lifts one foot up on his leg and tries to rub warmth into them. Jaskier’s shoulders are tense, his eyes downcast. Geralt looks up at him with a frown.

“It’s alright.” He murmurs. “I had blackouts in the beginning too. They will pass. I'm here for you.”

Jaskier nods again, but he knows that wasn’t it. This was the string calling him. And he was helpless to it.

 

 

Chapter Text

Yennefer and Sabrina walk next to each other.

Their heels are clicking against the stone floor and the sounds echoes against the walls and low hanging ceiling above. They carry a flame each, the light flickering against their palm and between their fingers.

It is cold. And damp. A fucking horrible place.

It reeks of magic, sour and rotten. Sabrina wrinkles her nose as they get deeper into the labyrinth of tunnels.

The deeper in they get, the thicker the waft of foul magic is. She is not familiar with this smell, this stench, that sticks to the walls.

 

There should be rats around, scuttling along the walls. But everything is bare. Empty.

Everything alive in here had fled long ago, either out of the exit or by some form of death.

With a start, Yennefer is reminded of her first nights at Aretuza, when she, too, tried to escape. She almost feels the cold, cutting sting of the mirror on her wrists, almost feels the hotness of her blood trickling down. Only that place was built on life.

This place died long ago.

“What do you make of her? Basia?” She is tugged out of her thoughts by Sabrina's voice.

“I'm not sure. Philipa is usually closemouthed but this was something else. She stank of dark magic.” Yennefer says. “Much like this place.”

“She should have told us more before she sent us down here.” Sabrina mutters, sending glares around her at the naked walls.

Yennefer agrees, but there is no point in moaning about it.

There is a bend in the path and they are met with a solid stone wall. Sabrina snorts.

“Subtle.” They take a look around, finding nothing that makes them suspect a trap.

Yennefer drags a gloved hand over the stone, fingers coming away damp with condensation. She finds one that sticks out just a fraction.

 

When she pushes it back into place there is a click, and the wall that blocked their path retracts.

She raises an eyebrow at the dramatics of having a secret door in a hidden cave. Seems a bit excessive, honestly.

Tacky, like this person is trying to be villain of the week. It’s a simple enough trick, and they carry on their trek.

 

There is nothing more blocking their path, no more hindrance. Almost too easy. Doors start appearing on their way, heavy wooden doors.

Some of them seem to be holding cells, another a laboratory. They enter it and find crystals, feathers, ash and body parts.
The tip of a finger lies in a copper bowl, fingernail cracked with blood still on it. Yennefer frowns at it, picking up a wooden spoon and turning it around.

The skin on the fingertip is cut off. She holds out her own hand next to it in comparison.

Looks like a piece of pinkie.

“Seems like they had someone here recently. It hasn't started rotting yet.” She remarks, casually dropping the spoon and trying not to wipe her hands on her dress There is no blood on the bench around it however. She sees no signs of maiming in this room.

 

Looking out in the corridor again she looks through the cells. Only one shows signs of having had an inhabitant, blood and sick smeared across the stone. The straw is moldy, black and grey. But no shackles, no sign of what has been happening. Just the stale smell of decay.

“Yennefer.” Sabrina calls from two rooms away. As Yennefer enters the room she stops and takes in the scene.

Ah, this is where the main event happened.

 

In the middle of the room there is a big stone slab, shackles and chains attached to its sides. Along the wall there are more benches and rows upon rows with instruments and blades, pokers and pliers. Bowls sit neatly in a row, clean and well kept. Everything but the slab is neat and clean.

“I guess Basia doesn’t treat her guests too well.” Yennefer comments, walking up the the torture table. The blood splatter is in layers, some older and some more recent. Someone had a really bad time in here.

For some peculiar reason, there is a lock of hair lying near the head of the stone.

Dark brown, a bit of a curl on the end. She takes off her glove and reaches for it with her bare hand, hoping to pick something up. A memory, a feeling, a face.

It’s brittle between her fingers. Dry and a little dirty. She puts it back down at the stone, her bare fingers touching the smooth, cold surface.

 

 

Pain lance through her. It burns, darting up her arm, a ringing in her ears, a tearing sensation.

It hurts so bad she have to hold back a scream.

 

 

She snatches her hand back and holds it to her chest, staring at the stone. One of the shackles rattles to the floor, making Sabrina turn to look at her.

“You good?”

“Yes. I... it’s.... Don’t touch the stone. The pain lingers.” Sabrina nods her understanding and turns back towards a bookcase at the end of the room.

“Find anything?” Yennefer asks, swallowing thickly. The fear she felt was not hers, nor the pain. The ringing slowly dies down, and she looks up at the cracked stone ceiling.

“Not much. If this was Basias hideout she didn’t leave anything sensitive behind.” Sabrina takes out a book and skims through a few pages. “Doesn’t seem like she kept more than one...guest at the time here, though.”

“What makes you say that?” Yennefer, gathering herself before she joins Sabrina.

“Look.” The other woman points on one of the pages. Rows after neat rows of writing, lists of ingredients in different combinations, and dates. This has been going on for a while.

But something doesn’t sit right.

All of this was too easy. Almost deliberate.

 

Sabrina twists around with a sharp intake of breath, staring out in the empty room around them.

 

Somewhere in the halls there is a growl and a loud moan.

 

Something is coming. Something foul smelling and big.

 

 

Chapter Text

Jaskier sits in the bath while Geralt is preparing for the hunt.

The water is steaming hot and Jaskier almost feels like himself again. There is a bar of soap on the table next to him. Jaskier wanted to go to the market before getting in, meaning to buy himself some scented soaps. But Geralt was relentless, all but throwing him in the tub with clothes and all.

For once it was Jaskier begging for privacy.

For once he is too conscious about his own body.

Geralt gave him an odd look before walking out and leaving him to it.

 

A relief and a loss at the same time. Alone with his thoughts and the tugging, there is nothing else to focus on.

No. Fuck this. She will not take this from him as well.

Jaskier picks up the soap, lathers it up, and scrubs himself, dedicated to give himself a scent, even if it is cheap soap. He hums under his breath, singing a soft lullaby to keep everything at bay.

It feels nice. The vibration of his voice in his chest, the heat, the sense of getting clean again.

Pieces of bark and pine needles fall from his hair into the water and that will not do.

 

When Jaskier leaves the room, one of the maids approaches him with a flirty smile.

“You have a lovely voice.” She says, blinking and looking up at him through his lashes. She is pretty, freckles decorating her nose and cheeks, her eyes a warm brown, breasts heavy.

She takes a step closer and puts a hand on his chest, right over his heart.

“I wonder, would you sing for me?” She asks him, voice low and seductive. He would. He wants to. Almost.

“I uh… have my companion waiting for me upstairs.” Jaskier manages to get out, curling a strand of wet hair behind his ear. The maid blinks, clearly not expecting that answer.

“Oh, I'm so sorry! I didn’t realize you had an arrangement.” She says, reclaiming her hand and backing away. Jaskier doesn’t get a chance to correct her before she red cheeked hurries back to her tasks.

Ah, well. Not that he minds in the least, but Geralt will likely be a bit bothered about the missconception. Jaskier slowly makes his way towards their room, soft slippers on his feet.

He feels more like himself now, more in control. He wonders what it would have been like to kiss the maid. To touch her, and her to touch him.

He thinks of her hand on his chest, small and soft. Her eyes warm and a deep brown. He almost walks straight into the door of their room, so lost in thought.

Jaskier absently ruffles his hair when he steps inside, and is met with a terrible smell. He wrinkles his nose when he sits down on their bed. Ugh, potions.

“Alright?” Geralt asks him from where he sits on the floor. It’s unfair how Geralt still after a night of no sleeping still can look so good.

“The maid downstairs wanted me to sing for her. In her room.”

“Oh.” Geralt pauses the grinding of...whatever it is, Jaskier would rather not know actually, and looks up at him. “You didn’t go with her?”

“I thought about it.” Jaskier admits. “But I’d rather be with you.”

It takes Jaskier a moment to listen to his own words, busy with fiddling with his hands. And then he feels himself blushing and quickly looking up at Geralt, who looks right back with a surprised look on his face.

“Ah. That came out wrong.” Jaskier says hurriedly. “But you know what I mean.”

Geralt clears his throat, looks down and starts grinding that something again.

“Yeah. I still have to finish that wraith though.” Geralt tells the thing in the bowl meeting its demise through mortel violence. Geralt is going to drink that. Jaskier will never understand how he manages.

“I won’t be in the way.”

“I know.”

Jaskier will be in the way. They both know it, because somehow trouble is drawn to him. But it will be alright. They are both still here, aren’t they?
They sit in comfortable silence for a while.

Jaskier misses his lute, so he crawls up on the bed instead and watches Geralt work.

His hands are big, scarred, capable.

Now Jaskier thinks about those hands on his chest. Big, instead of small. Rough instead of soft. Amber eyes studying him instead of warm brown.

Oh no.

Time to rein in those thoughts and push them right back down.

No need to go back that path again. That hurt good enough back on the mountain. No need to to poke at the wound just because he is being nice now.

Jaskier curls under the blankets and hides. It’s enough that Geralt is here, watching over him. Even if the tugging takes him, Geralt will be here. Geralt won’t let him go.
And finally feeling warm again, finally feeling safe, Jaskier falls asleep.

 

 

 

The moon is high in the sky, clouds dancing bringing it in and out of view.

Perfect for a night at the graveyard, mingling around the gravestones. Jaskier is sitting inside the holy house in the middle of the graveyard, perched in a windowsill looking out. That is the safest place for him to be right now, while the wraith is about to appear.

Geralt sits outside the door, meditating while waiting. It should appear any minute now, manifesting between the graves. Jaskier leans his forehead against the cold window, wishing he knew how to meditate too.

This is their first hunt since… then. Since he got out. Jaskier is a little nervous about it, despite not being the one doing anything. It shouldn’t be that hard of a fight, but one never knows.

If Geralt gets hurt, he is not sure how he would do.

There is a sound outside. A hissing, crawling sound. It’s here.

It takes but a moment for Geralt to appear into view, sword brandished and armor well strapped.

The sword is gleaming in the cold moon light, and not for the first time Jaskier wishes he had brought his notebook.
It’s not the first time he has watched Geralt fight a wraith, and he is familiar with the way it dissolves and reappears behind the witcher.

The lantern it’s holding is gleaming eerily, lighting Geralt's features and scars.

He looks powerful, beautiful even. White hair flowing when he turns to slash his sword, throw Yrden to keep it in place.


If Jaskier wasn’t resurrected, or whatever this is, would he have turned into a wraith? A ghoul?

Something angry and hungry, something that Geralt might take a contract to end?


Possibly.

That silver sword thrust into his chest, putting him back into the cold darkness that is death.

Outside, he can hear Geralt's grunt of pain.

The wraith lands a hit over his shoulder, and Geralt wasn’t fast enough to parry. Fuck.

Jaskier sits up and watches the fight a little closer.

Another blow from the wraith, clawing against his face. Jaskier can only see the back of it from here, towering over Geralt.

Then a sword pierce right through it, a loud scream and it folds in on itself, disappears.

Geralt is breathing hard and slowly letting his sword slowly sink towards the ground.

 

Jaskier is on his feet before he knows it, running through the doors and out, out to his witcher. Blood is trickling from Geralt's brow, it’s a small wound but they always bleed a lot when it’s on the face. Jaskier knows.

Geralt watches him approach, watches him stop right in front of him, watches Jaskiers hand reach up and softly touch his cheek.

Jaskier grabs Geralt's chin, turning his head to look at the wound. It doesn’t look too bad, probably won’t need stitches.

“How are your ribs?” Jaskier asks quietly, turning Geralt's face the other way to inspect for more damage.

His heart is beating loudly, not only from the adrenaline of the fight.

It’s never a given that Geralt will allow being looked after. And truthfully, Jaskier doesn’t push it too much. Being allowed now really tells how far they have come.

“Sore.” Geralt replies, taking a step back to roll his shoulders.

“Did you even take the potion? It beat you up more than usual today.”

“Hm.”

“Don’t you hmm me, witcher.”

Geralt turns his back and puts his sword away.

“Was a bit distracted.” he mutters and bends down to pick at the remains of the wraith for something to bring back as proof.

And Jaskier stands there in the moonlight, pushing down hard on those burning feelings that want to be the reason why.

Chapter Text

Damn this fucking cave, damn this fucking dungeon and damn fucking Basia.

Yennefer knew it was too easy.

Knew things served on a silver platter means trap.

And the trap is running behind them, slamming into a wall as it skids around the corner.

 

The flesh of it slaps against the stone, a wet and slimy sound that makes her feel sick.

Sabrina runs in front of her, blasting away debris in their way as they flee.

“We need to portal out of here!” She pants, and Yennefer knows, she fucking knows. She is however rather busy, casting spell after spell to make the thing keep its distance.

It rages on after them. She guesses she knows where the rats went. Patches of the things skin is covered in fur, matted and bloodied. There are brown and grey fluids leaking from its skin and its gaping mouth, and its madness pushes against her senses.

“Is this what they created on that slab?” Sabrina pants , throwing yet another hex over her shoulder.

“Might be.” Yennefer pants back. “But it doesn’t feel like this is what she wanted. Or she should have brought it with her.”

“Watch out, I'm taking down the ceiling.”

They run down a corridor and Yennefer throws a barrier between the thing and them. The smell is almost overpowering, the rot and death oozing from it even through her magic.

Sabrina throws her hands towards the ceiling in front of them, speaks some words in elder, and pulls the air downwards.
The stone responds, cracking and breaking and a thundurus roar drowns out every sound when it caves in, blocking the path between them and the thing.

As the dust settles, the women catch their breath.

“We need to seal this place.” Yennefer says, and Sabrina nods her agreement.

They work quickly, setting up the strongest barrier they can manage. This thing cannot get out. It is far from civilisation, but if this creature gets out, there is no telling what havoc it will wreck.

 

 

Yennefer is grateful for the foresight of putting up a portaling circle in the lodge. She feels drained, muscles heavy with effort when she steps through it and into the safety of their house. She is filthy, dust and sweat sticking to her like a second skin, clothes more grey than black.

“Ugh! Where the hell have you been?” Philippa greets them, pinching her nose when the stench greets her in turn. “You smell like death!”

“Basia has been busy, it would seem.” Sabrina replies, fishing up the book she somehow snagged from the torture chamber when they ran. Philippa takes it, flipping through pages quickly. Yennefer dusts off her pants and settles on a chair around the table.

All she wants is a bath and a change. And sleep.

“We met her experiment. It was set up nicely, easy to get into, clean enough for us to go looking for clues while it sneaked up on us.” Yennefer adds. “And someone was kept there recently.”

“Could that someone be the experiment?” Philippa asks, putting the book down with a furrowed brow. She tugs at her braids, as she often does when distracted about a thought.

“Possibly, or a former prisoner. Got the impression she stayed until she was done.” Yennefer says, and Sabrina nods her agreement.

“I found a piece of a finger, still in a good shape, and hair on a bloodied slab.” Yennefer pushes back a shiver when the ghost of the pain dances through her memory.“ The pain lingered, so whatever was going on there was some dark shit.”

 

Philippa stares at the table, scratching her nails against the wood. She looks lost in thought, and Yennefer doesn’t like it one bit.

 

“You need to tell us why she knows you. Why she seeked us out. Because this was very much intentional, and you know it. Had either of us gone alone we might have died.” Yennefer says, and to her surprise Philippa actually nods.

“When Triss is back we will meet here again. There are some books I need to find to confirm my suspicions. Impressive that she has stayed undetected this long.”

“Or she had help.” Sabrina says, brow furrowed in worry. “It was too clean, more than one persons handwriting in the book. We need more information.”

“And to end that experiment of hers.” Yennefer adds. She is not squeamish, but that thing reeked of wrong, of dark magic. She hopes it stays in there, that what they did was enough, because if it got out there is no telling what could happen.

“All in good time. We will meet back here again tonight, take a good rest until then. We have a long night ahead of us.”

 

 

And a long night it turns out to be.

Triss returns during the afternoon, looking almost as bad as Yennefer feels. It would seem someone doesn’t want people to ask around, and she had to fight her way through the sewers.

“Why is all of your meetingplaces in the fucking sewers?” Yen asks her when she appears.

“I ask myself that all the time. But I suppose that is where these rats feel safe.” Triss says back, heavily implying that they are not. For Triss to look this beat up, there should be quite the body count down there in the morning, and Yennefer has to smirk.

 

Philippa joins them in their meeting room that night. It's now dark outside, candelabras shining along the walls and giving it all a rather dramatic mood.

Sabrina sits stiffly in her chair, hands folded neatly in her lap. Triss and Yennefer stands by the wall, arms crossed and in a foul mood.

“So” Philippa begins, again sealing the door behind her with that glimmering surface. “What did you learn, Triss?”

If Triss is offended with being ordered about, she doesn’t show it.

“It is mostly beggars and thugs that have gone missing in these parts. My contacts were twitchy, claiming a sorceress was behind it, that she had been seen on the outskirts of town. They jumped me as I tried to leave.” Triss makes a disgusted kind of snort. “There is very little else to learn, at least within the town borders. I have made arrangements to get news from other contacts around the kingdom.”

Philippa nods, looking thoughtful.

“I assume you have been filled in on what Sabrina and Yennefer found?” Philippa asks and Yen and Triss share a look. They talked before coming down here, and they both agree on something not adding up.

“I have.” Triss agrees. “And we are still waiting for what you have learned from your people.”

Philippa leans forward, folding her hands in front of her face.

“She has been sighted in several courts across the continents. None has been able to connect her to peoples disappearing, but she has been noticed. A young mage, fresh out of Ban Ard has gone missing. There is no proof, but Basia was seen around those parts at the time of the disappearance. She might have recruited him.”

“Or killed him.” Sabrina adds, eyes dark from whatever it was they left behind in that cave.

“Possible.” Philippa agrees. “But I think she would have more use of a fresh, imprintable mind than a dead one.”

“Why would she think you would be interested, Philippa?” Triss asks, a hint of accusation in her voice.

She never liked having to deal with dark magic. Yennefer has chosen not to tell her about her own dealings with it, but Triss probably knows anyway.

Philippa sits quietly for a moment, not looking at any of them.

“I was, once.” she admits. “I met Basia many, many years ago. We had some common interests back then, and truth be told we dabbled into necromancy. She snared me in with promises of control, of power. But where I saw danger, she saw potential.”

For Philippa to find something too dangerous, it is not something that comes up much.

But the proof of it sits there in the tunnels, too close for Yennefer to actually feel comfortable about it. Triss looks vaguely disgusted but doesn’t interrupt.

“She disappeared on me one day. It turns out that she had killed fifteen of my king's guards and done gruesome things to the bodies. Only, they weren’t entirely dead. When we burned them, they screamed.”

Philippas gaze is locked on the candles, memories bringing her far away.

“We kept finding bodies. It went so far that my own king sent me out after Basia, wanting me to end her. And I tried.”

The silence in the room is thick, waiting.

“I cast a curse on her. Her own curse, rippling with dark magic and wild chaos. I thought I stopped her, because she disappeared.”

“It would seem you did not.” Sabrina says quietly, and Philippa nods.

“Indeed not. It is very likely she was here to test the waters, so set bait and see if we would bite. And we did.”

“Then let's show her how hard we bite.” Yennefer mutters.

“We need to prepare.” Triss says. “And we need to talk to our kings.”

 

 

Chapter 9

Notes:

Some more pining, panic and just a lil gore.

Also, next chapter is going to go rather dark...
Take care of yourself <3

Chapter Text

They pick up the lute two days later.

The shopkeeper had asked if he wanted something specific, but Jaskier declined. He wanted to see what she would make of it.

She painted it modestly, beautifully. Small details, modest little flowers mostly hidden under the carved soundhole.

Yellow and blue and red and white.

“It’s perfect.” Jaskier croaks out when she shows him, stroking with a light finger across the wooden neck. The varnish is so perfect he can almost see his reflection on its smooth surface.

The shopkeeper is glowing, leaning over the desk and watching his expression.

There is this warm, wonderful feeling inside knowing he will be able to play again.

“Can I try her? Before we go?”

“Please do,” she says and again she points him to the little stool along the wall.

He starts out with a few accords. He has to adjust his grip to make up for the now shorter finger, but he figures it out. Humming and strumming and feeling like the world is complete again.
The shopkeeper looks over at Geralt and Jaskier looks too. He is leaning against the wall, arms crossed and smiling.

Jaskiers heart stutters and his cheeks warm, so he looks back at the lute.

“It’s almost like she was waiting for you to come along.” The shopkeeper comments. “I have been working with this one for a long time, but never managed to finish it until now. It feels like destiny.”

Geralt harrumphs in the background and Jaskier cracks a smile.

“Could be.” Jaskier agrees. They put it back in the case, the shopkeeper patting it lovingly.

They make the first payment and bid her farewell, for now.

An hour later they ride out. There is talk among the villagers about things happening, about people disappearing two villages away. Geralt asked around, and it sounds like there might be a contract for him there.

Roach is well rested after a few days in the stable, eager to be out and about again. Wilk, however, does not share her sentiment. Jaskier kicks him in the sides, urging him to keep up. Wilk is more interested in grass and greens.

Geralt gives him one of those infuriating smirks again, and everything flutters inside. Jaskier struggles to stay on the road and stay in the saddle both, Geralt and Wilk teaming up to make things hard for him.

 

 

They make camp at a crossroad, some other travelers already having pitched their tents and settling in for the evening. Jaskier plays his lute in front of the fire, singing softly, enjoying every moment.

Three songs and two suggestions in, he zones out.

His eyes linger in the fire, echoes of sizzling metal and a burning pain.

His fingers get stiff, sweat forming at his hairline.

 

Geralt's hand on his shoulder makes him jump, he didn’t notice him walk up behind him. The scream catches in his throat, heart tugging hard.
He stares up with wide eyes at Geralt, clutching his lute to his chest.

“Maybe we should retire for the night.” Geralt suggests softly, nodding towards a tent a kind couple borrowed them.

Jaskier nods, trying hard not to hyperventilate.

“Are you alright?” One of the travelers asks, an elderly man with a receding hairline.

Jaskier nods again, trying to smile, returning his lute to the case in stiff movements.

Geralt puts a hand on his back when they walk towards the tent, and Jaskier appreciates it greatly.

It grounds him to the now, keeps the old sensations at bay. He tries to focus on it, leans back just a little to the pressure.

Geralt notices, of course he does, and splays his fingers a bit wider.

Jaskier puts the case next to the bedroll, not even kicking off his shoes before he crumbles to his knees.
Geralt is right there, catching him, drawing him close.

“Im here.” He soothes. Geralt is wearing his armor, it’s cool against Jaskiers forehead. “Want to tell me about it?”

“Just got too close to the fire.” Jaskier murmurs. He gives in to the urge and wrapping his arms around Geralt, seeking comfort.

“Hmm.” Geralt says, predictably, and it is so completely Geralt that Jaskier has to smile again.

It feels good, within all the chaos that swirls in him, to still be allowed this.

Geralt's hands trace patterns on his back, his neck, and slowly he calms down.

“It doesn’t get as bad anymore.” Jaskier says quietly to Geralt's shoulder.

“Good.” Geralt's shoulder tells him.

For long minutes they sit there. The burning fear is replaced with butterflies, and no. He can’t.
He sits back, not looking at Geralt, clearing his throat.

“Thank you.” Jaskier turns and starts working on his boots.

“Always.” Geralt says and it is terrifying. Always.

Behind him, Geralt removes his armor, his own boots, and they lie down. Jaskier pretends he can see the stars through the canvas until he falls asleep.

 

 

It is a few days' travel to the possible contract.

But there are a lot of people to talk to, and a lot of information to gather. There is something in the woods. It takes woodcutters and nobles alike. Three people, last they heard, and all that remains a bloody mess in the undergrowth.

They say it is something dead. Something big and foul smelling.

A lot of it is exaggerations, of course, but there is real fear in their eyes.

 

 

Arriving at the village is both a blessing and a curse.

An unnatural mist hangs around the forest, and the smell is indeed foul. Dead.

They find lodging easily, the relief written on the eldermans face when he learns of Geralt's presence. It is nice to have a mattress to lay on, a roof over his head. But there is a feeling, something inside Jaskier that feels wrong. He felt it the moment the mist came into view. The silence is eerie. The people are subdued, the nature silent. It sends creeps up his spine.

They get two rooms, but Jaskier… doesn’t like it.

That first night, Jaskier comes knocking on Geralt's door. When the door opens Geralt takes one look at him and invites him inside.

“Are you alright?”

“Yes. I just… Can I stay with you?” Jaskier doesn’t do puppy eyes. He doesn’t.

Geralt snorts and walks deeper into the room.

“Fine. But you take the floor.” Geralt sits down on the bed, which is clearly wide enough for two people. His things are neatly put away to one side, as if he made room for one more.

It flutters inside again, but no, he pushes it down. Geralt wouldn’t expect him to come, would he?

“Rude!” Jaskier complains, hiding his hopeful fantasy behind indignation. “It’s like you want me to suffer!

Geralt shrugs, fluffs his pillow and lies down.

“You got a perfectly fine bed in your room.” he says, closing his eyes and smiling mockingly. He does. Only it's big, and it is lonely, and it is inviting that empty, heavy feeling and he hates it.

“My room has a draft.” he lies and Geralt chuckles.

“I'm sure the floor in here will be nicer to you then.”

“Bastard.” Jaskier mutters, turning to leave.

“Jaskier.” Geralt says, just before Jaskier walks out. “Fetch your things.”

Jaskiers ears burn hot, Geralt's voice is low and gravely. Maybe this was a bad idea after all.
But he fetches his things, and when he returns Geralt has made room for him on the bed.

Jaskier puts his things in the empty space Geralt left him and creeps down under the covers in the spot he vacated.

His heart is tugging hard, so loud in his own ears that he worries Geralt will hear it. Sleep finally claims him , and when the morning comes Jaskier finds himself hugging Geralt's back.

They don't talk about it, of course not. They simply get up and get on with their day.

They are served a rather grey porridge, but it is tastier than it looks with a bit of butter on top.

 

 

They go to see the alderman soon thereafter, Jaskier close in Geralt's footsteps.

The man is barrel chested, his hands are big and his eyes are sharp. His wife stands at his side, almost half the height of her husband but just as wide. Jaskier thinks they both look a little pale, eyes red rimmed.

They probably lost someone to whatever is out there.

A third man stands by the door, equipped with a bow and arrow and a hunting knife.

“I don’t know much, but it’s been a week since the last victim.” The alderman says. “First two were the young lady of the manor and her… her guard.” The alderman pauses, looks up and blinks away some angry tears. His wife looks down, pressing her eyes tightly together. So very likely their son then.

The man with the bow by the door takes over, mercifully.

“The last body was the baker's oldest son. He went for firewood and never came home. We still haven’t found all of him.”

All of him.

Jaskiers stomach turns, he has to fight the urge to grab a hold of Geralt's arm. That wouldn't look very professional.

“Can you show me?” Geralt asks the man, the huntmaster by the looks of him.

The huntmaster nods, and Geralt turns to the couple. There is no haggling about the price, not yet. He nods towards them too, and then leaves without another word. Jaskier follows behind, unsure if he really wants to go inside the mist. Instead of thinking about it, he just trails behind, staying close to Geralt. With him, he is safe.

 

 

They start where the guard and the young lady were killed. It is easy to see where their bodies had been, the grass sick and dead around it.

Geralt pokes around, Jaskier can tell when he uses his witcher senses. His pupils change, his posture stiffens, focus as sharp as a tip of a needle. Jaskier stands back with the huntmaster, trying to stay quiet.

The forest is silent around them, no birds, rustling of leaves, nothing. His thumping pulse is loud in his own ears and the ringing soft and constant. Jaskier wonders if Geralt can hear the ringing too. It would be interesting and very odd, he muses.

When Geralt is done they move on to the latest one. It is deeper into the woods, the trees thick crowns blocking out the light of the day.

The shadows and the mist swirls around them, every sound they make sounds muted and far away.

 

The ground looks much the same here. It looks wounded where the body had been. In some places there are still dark stains of blood.

“A week, you said?” Geralt asks the huntmaster, kneeling down and digging in the dirt with a dagger.

“Six days, master witcher.” The man agrees, watching every move Geralt makes with rapt attention.

“You said you didn’t find all of him. What is missing?” Geralt wipes his blade on the grass that is still green. As soon as the black residue touches it, it wrinkles up, loses color and shrinks. Dies.

“Hard to say. We could account for all limbs but a finger. The insides were too mushed up to really identify. The village healer is working on it though.”

Geralt nods and Jaskier wants to throw up.

 

Then there is a sinking sensation in Jaskiers body. He can see Geralt's lips moving, but all he hears is the ringing. The tugging in his chest feels like yanking, and his knees almost buckles.

 

 

“It’s coming.” He whispers.

 

Geralt's head whips around and stares at him.

 

Then comes the stench.

 

The foul reeking of something dead.

 

 

Chapter 10

Notes:

Hello cuties!
Please note that the rating has gone up from M to E, because i realize Im being slightly mean!

!!!! Warnings for this chapter; body horror (monster), brief self harm !!!

Im sorry, be careful, take care of yourself.

You can skip this chapter if you want, and go directly to the ending notes, where I will put the important thing for plot <3

(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)

Chapter Text

Jaskier’s head is pounding.

His joints ache, his chest feels like it is going to burst.

The scar over his ribs feels like it is on fire, there is purple at the edges of his vision, a sensation of dark long hair against his face.

The stench is overpowering. The fear sits in his throat, it tastes like bile and that grey porridge. He doesn’t register that he is running until he can hear Geralt shouting his name behind him.

Jaskier can’t stop. Won’t stop.

 

There is something back there.

The thing that killed the lady and the guard and the baker son.

Jaskier can’t stay, can’t see it, can’t let himself know what is calling to him.

No no no no no.

He hears Geralt's voice again, but it's distorted.

Far away.

The shadows dance in and out of his vision and all he knows is that he must get away.

The fog feels like it is thickening, thickening, thickening and not until he can barely breathe anymore does it break. Suddenly, like breaking through a barrier, the fog dispatches and he stumbles to the ground.

He doesn’t stop though, on his knees he scrabbles to get further away, gravel and grass digging into his palms and knees. Can’t get enough distance between himself and the thing.

 

Geralt.

Fuck.

He left Geralt behind with the monster. And the huntmaster. Fuck.

No. He can’t lose the one thing that makes him feel safe.

The one person who makes him feel like himself.

 

Jaskier drags shaking hands over his face, pulling at his own hair, knowing that he is about to go back in there. Back into the fog, back to Geralt.
Slowly he stands up, he is clutching the fabric around his neck, trying to keep himself rooted, trying to keep himself sane.

One step at the time, he finds himself back at the woods edge. The villagers are staring at him, and he realizes he must look mad. First come racing through the fog and then going back in there. Jaskier feels mad, and he feels so much shame for running, fear for returning.

The fog engulfs him, blinds him, the white and grey swirling, and he goes where his heart tugs him. Towards it, towards Geralt. It calls to him, beckoning him closer.

Sounds of metal against flesh, grunts and sick wheezing moaning tells him he is close. Something wet falls to the ground with a thud, and he can almost hear the grass hissing and dying. Jaskier sticks his head around a tree, fear gripping his throat like a hand trying to throttle him.

It’s hard to decide what it is he is actually seeing.

It looks like bodies morphed into one, big and fleshy and parts of fur sticking out. There is one disfigured human head and animal limbs here and there.

The huntsman stands only a few meters away, shooting arrow after arrow into the thing. His eyes are wide and terrified, his mouth a line of determination.

And Geralt, Geralt is right there. His armor is sticky with black icor, a golden shimmer surrounding him until the thing throws up a soggy arm and shatters it like glass. Geralt grunts, casting Igni with one hand and parrying another arm with his sword.

 

What can Jaskier do? What can he possibly do to help? He has no weapons, no magic, no bow and arrow.

Geralt jumps back, rolling into a crouch to get out of reach when the arm swipes after him again. There is a thunk when another arrow hits the things back, but it doesn’t give it any mind.
Jaskier draws for breath, loud in the silent forest.

The thing hears.

It turns its human head towards Jaskier, slowly. Its nostrils are flaring, smelling him. And then it throws itself forward, lunging towards Jaskier.
Jaskier swallows a scream, Geralt finally noticing him again and the pure terror when their eyes lock on each other.

 

“RUN!” Geralt yells, throwing himself at the thing again, blasting it with Aard, trying to get in its way.

Jaskier can’t move. Can't leave Geralt again.

“JASKIER! RUN!” Geralt roars, but it doesn’t help. The huntsman comes up to him, grips his arm and drags him with him.

Jaskier feels the tugging, the lure to join the mass of flesh, to be one. Fuck.
Finally he breaks out of it, and he follows the huntsman.

“GERALT!” Jaskier yells over his shoulder, fearing for so much more than himself.

More than anything, he doesn’t want to leave Geralt behind again.

There is a grunt of pain, and then Geralt's muted footsteps catching up behind him.

They run away together, finally.

Fleeing from something dead that won’t die.

 

 

The thing doesn’t seem to be chasing them anymore. At least Jaskier can’t hear it.

The foul smell sticks in his nose, in the back of his throat.

As soon as they stop he throws up. He leans against a tree and breathes heavily through the aftershock, spittle dripping from his lips and on his chin, limbs trembling.

The huntsman isn’t much better off, his knees give way and he thuds into the grass making gagging noises. Geralt is the only one standing upright, scanning the trees around them. They can hear the village, but like it is far away.

“What was that?” Jaskier asks quietly.

“Some kind of flesh golem.” Geralt replies, words clipped and angry. “They feed on everything and absorb the dead.”

Jaskier shudders and wipes his mouth on his sleeve. Geralt slightly turns to the huntmaster on the ground.

“I think we found the rest of the baker's son.”

 

 

Geralt returns to the alderman and his wife again.

They can’t do this alone, they need a magic wielder. The flesh golem is too strong by now, having so many sources to keep growing and it’s only going to get worse.


He suggests they send someone to the druids camp a days ride from here, someone strong with ice. They agree, and Geralt plans a way to trap the monster. He can’t break it, not without finding its maker.

All the while Jaskier stands there, his hands shaking and the ringing in his ear and burning of his scar.

He sticks close to Geralt, as close as he can without being in the way when he puts the plan into motion.

There is shame and fear burning in his chest.

The panic stole his control away, again, and it could have cost him.

Shame for leaving Geralt, shame for his body wishing to be a part of that thing.

Meld his flesh to theirs, lose himself in the union.

It disgusts him how close he was.

 

 

 

Jaskier returns to the inn early.

There is something he needs to know, something he must prove to himself.

Geralt goes about protruding ingredients for his potions and concoctions, and he will be busy for a while.

It suits Jaskier perfectly. Instead of going inside their now shared room, Jaskier enters his own abandoned one.

He brought with him a small knife, he snuck it from one of Roaches saddlebags, not really ready yet to carry his own.

He sits down on the wooden floor, the empty wash basin in front of him waiting.

Where should he cut?

Arm is probably best, so that he can easily hide it. Jaskier rolls up his sleeve and turns his arm to the more fleshy part.

The knife is sharp and it splits his skin easily.

Relief floods him when dark red blood wells up from the wound. It doesn’t drip, his body holding on tight to what keeps him up and moving, but it’s there.

It doesn’t smell sick, it isn’t black and burning.

He isn’t a part of that thing. Not yet at least.

He lets the knife clutter to the floor, ignoring the clang of it hitting the porcelain bowl. Jaskier squeezes his arm, trying to push out a little more.

It hurts, but the relief is stronger. One drop falls from his arm into the washing bin.

That is enough.

He is alive enough to bleed.

 

 

Jaskier sits by the table and writes in his journal.

It’s been a while since he did that, but it feels nice to give his thoughts an outlet. Dark poems and fragile love songs spread on the page as the hours tick by.

Geralt returns just after dark, and stops dead just inside the door, nostrils flaring.

His eyes go wide and they stare at Jaskier in horror.

“Are you hurt?” He asks, hurrying up to Jaskier where he sits and kneels on the floor. “What happened?!”

“What? No, Geralt, calm down, I'm fine.” Jaskier says, frowning.

Geralt grabs his arms, plucking the pen right out of his hand and lays it on the table, examining him.

“You smell like blood.” Geralt says and, oh, he finds the cut.

Geralt looks at it for a long moment.

Jaskier had let it be after he got the proof he needed, letting the blood clot over and completely forgot about it.

“When did this happen?” Geralt asks quietly, gently prodding the edge of the wound.

It doesn’t really hurt, not to the still lightly burning sensation from the scar on his chest, but he sucks in a breath anyway.

“Probably when we ran in the woods.” Jaskier lies. “A branch or something. Didn’t notice it, actually.”

If Geralt knows he is lying, he doesn't say. He simply keeps inspecting the arm, unblemished except for the cut, and then the other.

“We should wash it.”

“It’s already closed.”

“Better safe than sorry.” Geralt says, and isn’t that ironic. That is what Jaskier has told Geralt every time he thinks he doesn’t need bandages, cleaning, stitches.

Geralt leaves to fetch some water and clean rags. Shame still lies curled in the pit of his stomach, for leaving, and Geralt is still taking care of him.

“I'm sorry.” Jaskier says when Geralt once again is kneeling in front of him.

“For what?” Geralt asks.

“For running. For just… fucking leaving you behind. I'm so sorry.” Jaskier says, watching Geralt's hands gently clean up what little blood is there. The skin is already closing up nicely underneath, a pale pink line barely visible.

“Thank you for coming back.” Geralt says, touching the wound with a gentle finger. “But I’d prefer to keep you safe.”

“I'm only safe when I'm with you.”

 

It just slips out. He doesn’t mean to say it.

He snatches his arm back, gets up and crawls up into the corner of the bed, back against the room, against Geralt.

 

For a long moment there is silence, and Jaskier keeps staring at the wall.

His ears are straining for any clue of what is happening behind him, the traitors.

The bed dips, and Geralt sits down on the bed with him.

Close enough to feel his warmth but not close enough to touch.

 

“So stay with me.” Geralt says, really quietly, and Jaskier closes his eyes against the burn.

 

 

Notes:

Important plot point for this chapter if you skipped;

The monster is a flesh golem and can't be destroyed without destroying it's maker. They are bringing in a druid to help trap it in the next chapter.

Love yous!

Chapter 11

Notes:

Thank you my darling Kuri for betaing this chapter!! <3
I very much needed it this time haha!

Also things are heating up! enjoy!

Chapter Text

The early morning air is getting the first hint of cold in it, the summer slowly coming to an end. The window in their room is opened just a crack, letting out the stale smell of sleep.

Jaskier wakes up slowly. He feels drained, completely empty. Yesterday was too much, and he can’t wait to get away from this place. It’s still dark outside.

He shifts, intending to cuddle deeper into the blankets, but instead he finds something holding him in place.

Geralt's knees are fitted against the back of Jaskier's legs, and he seems to be holding on to his tunic in a tight grip.

Oh.

Jaskier's pulse picks up, and he focuses on breathing slowly through his nose. Geralt seems to be asleep still, if the light snuffling is anything to go by. One would think such a big man would snore, but no, somehow he is this fucking cute.

Jaskier aches to inch backwards, to drape Geralt's arm around himself and sleep for the rest of the day in complete safety.

But how can he? He is closer to that monster out there than the humans around him. And the thought alone makes him run cold.

Geralt makes a sound and pulls at Jaskier's shirt. It’s sweet. Jaskier is greedy, but he can be content with what he has. He doesn’t want to lose this.

It would seem Geralt is waking up, shuffling closer, and fuck, draping that arm around him. If Jaskier wasn’t dead, he would die again, he's sure.

Geralt makes a grunting sound, his hand splaying over Jaskier's belly. Heat races through him, and he fights the impulse to just grab Geralt's hand and lace their fingers together.

“Morning,” Geralt grumbles.

“Hi,” Jaskier says a little stiffly, trying to calm his beating heart.

“You alright?”

“Uh… yeah.”

“Your heart is beating really fast.”

Fuck. Shit. Balls.

“Yeah, uh… nightmare.”

Geralt nestles a little closer.

“Wanna talk about it?” he mumbles. He can’t be really awake yet. That is the only explanation. Geralt yawns loudly behind him, his jaw cracking.

“It’s alright. Thank you,” Jaskier says. He wonders if he should get up or if he should enjoy it. He is not used to a cuddly Geralt, despite their recent closeness. Geralt is just trying to comfort him, nothing else. Calm down, Jaskier.

Geralt falls asleep again, his hand going limp against Jaskier's belly. It’s time to get up. Maybe he can order a bath, or write or something. He's feeling sluggish, he wouldn’t mind staying in bed, but his heart can’t take it.

 

Somehow Jaskier manages to slip himself from under Geralt's arm without disturbing him, and is the first one to appear down in the main hall. There is someone making sounds in the kitchen, and a middle aged lady with rosy cheeks peeks out to greet him.

It is all too early for her to have gotten something proper going yet, but she puts together a plate of some leftovers from the day prior. Some cold sausages, potatoes and a stale piece of bread. He thanks her profusely and sits at the counter munching.

“Is it true?” She asks him. “The thing that took Aleksy can’t be killed?”

She looks worried, wringing her hands together and biting her lip. The memories from yesterday flood him again, cold sweat forming along his spine.

“Not yet,” Jaskier says. It is important to say the right thing now. “Geralt and the druid will trap it until we find who created it and make them undo it.”

“Will that work?” she asks, frowning. Jaskier feels his heart tugging uncomfortably at the mere thought.

“Geralt is the most capable man I know. He will find a way to keep us safe,” he tells her, because he trusts his witcher. The woman nods, but doesn’t look certain.

“Good. Things have been so weird since that witch passed through here. I swear to you, she is the one who left this abomination.”

That grabs Jaskier's attention. He swallows down a potato and clears his throat.

“Witch?” he asks. “Do you remember her name? What she looks like?”

 

 

Jaskier rushes up to their room, slamming the door open and rushing inside.

“Geralt!” Jaskier says, slamming the door behind him. “I got something.”

Geralt sits on the edge of the bed, shirt in hand and in progress of putting it on. His skin is in stark contrast to the blackness of his tunic, and Jaskier does a double take before he notices Geralt asked him something?

“What?” he asks, voice a little cracked.

“I said what?” Geralt repeats, a little smile on his lips. Morning light is streaming in from the window behind him and he looks otherworldly, hair messy and falling loosely over his shoulders. It is not fair how Geralt can look this soft and amazing in the morning.

“The innkeeper's wife told me a woman came through here, a sorceress.”

Geralt has roughly the same reaction as Jaskier had, sitting up straighter and fixing Jaskier with a stare.

“Do we have a name?” Geralt asks, pulling his shirt on hastily and reaching for his gear. They are meeting the druid in a few hours, and Geralt needs to prepare his gear for the fight.

“No, but a description. Dark brown hair, very skinny and very pale. Came through here some weeks ago with a younger man.”

“That’s not much to go on. Do we know where they went?” Geralt asks, frowning. He opens one of the saddle bags to go through its contents. Swallow, Jaskier knows. And Blizzard and Tawny Owl. He puts them in one pile, and another pile for the ones he won’t use. Jaskier notices some of them have dangerously little left. Since the fight with the wraith, they didn’t take time to restock. Worry prickles at him, and he scratches at the cut on his arm anxiously.

“Towards Novigrad? Didn’t you say that is where Triss hangs around nowadays?”

“Yes. She is popular with the nobles over there, the king listening keenly to her advice,” Geralt confirms, picking up a bottle with something vaguely grey to the light, shakes its contents and squints at it.

“You're drinking that?” Jaskier asks, knowing full well he will. He never understood how he can, when is so sensitive to different kinds of spices. Strange man.

“Not this time. But I need to make another batch.” Geralt puts the bottle in one of the two piles he is making.

“The innkeeper's wife thinks this sorceress created the flesh golem,” Jaskier says, the mere memory of it sends a chill down his spine. Fuck, he hates how it calls to him.

“Sorceresses are blamed for many things,” Geralt says, and fair, yes, they are. Prejudice is a dangerous thing.

“So it is. But do you think it’s likely?” Jaskier asks. He can’t explain to Geralt why he thinks it too. What he is feeling with the Golem around. How he is tugged onwards with every beat of his heart. It feels right, the direction the innkeeper wife told them.

“We will have to ask around more. Golems are not created out of the blue. If it was created here, there will be a hideout somewhere. If it followed her, we should be able to track them both ways.”

Jaskier nods. He is not sure he wants to meet this sorceress. It is very likely his sorceress, and that doesn’t sit nicely at all. What if she wants him to come to her? What if he blacks out again? Was that her that time too?

Jaskier's head is swimming with questions, fear resurfacing in full force. He leans back at the door and tries to control his breathing. The floorboards beneath him are moving and that is probably not good.

“Geralt?” Jaskier says faintly, a plea for help, and in a second Geralt is in front of him, pressing him to his chest.

“Thank you.” Jaskier clings to his tunic, listening to Geralt's heartbeat. It is a challenge to match their breaths, but he is getting better at it.

“Always,” Geralt says, and that is not fair. “What set it off?”

“Her, I think. Or the golem.” It is hard to talk, coming out breathy and shaky. He feels Geralt nod above him.

“It has been a rough few days,” Geralt says. Should he tell him? Is it too much? Jaskier has never talked about what happened there, and Geralt never pushed.

“She reminds me of her…” Jaskier says quietly.

“Who?”

“She who t-... From where you found me. Her.” Jaskier can’t bring himself to say it. He fucking can’t. It is too much.

Geralt's grip around him tightens, tensing up. Had it been some months ago, Jaskier would have broken out of his grip. He would have felt trapped and overwhelmed, but now it is reassuring.

Geralt doesn’t say anything, just stands there holding him.The ringing in his ears subside and the floorboards stop moving. Slowly the world is getting back together. No cracked stone above him, no dripping in the distance, no chill air and shackles. Just Geralt.

“I can’t stay behind. I can’t let you go in there alone.” Jaskier says, even though he is terrified.

“Jaskier.” Geralt sighs, but no, Jaskier won’t be left behind.

“I’ll stay by the druid. Or something. I won’t be in the way.” He hopes. Jaskier leans back a bit to look Geralt in the eye, because he can’t. For so many reasons.

“We barely got away last time.” Geralt protests, “I won’t be able to protect you.”

“You don’t have to. If it comes close, I’ll run.”

Geralt studies him closely. Jaskier does his best to look confident. They have a history of Jaskier following despite Geralt telling him no, so Geralt sighs.

“You are not leaving the druid's side.” Geralt says, going for stern but he hugs Jaskier closer again. Flutters break free in Jaskiers chest. There is the fear, of course, of being near that thing again, but Geralt holding him close just because makes him feel alive.

 

 

The mist is just as thick as last time. Jaskier follows the druid closely like he promised. His name is Jon, a middle aged man in brown robes and thin hair. Supposedly he is one of the stronger druids they have, especially when it comes to what Geralt has in mind.

As he cannot kill it, he will trap it. The druid will help build an icy prison, making its limbs slow, hopefully frozen.

If they are successful, the druid promises to help keep an eye on it until Geralt can find the woman that was spoken of. Jaskier hopes it works. Hopes they all get out of here with their lives.

The huntmaster decided to join them too. He is looking sweaty and pale, and is gripping his bow tightly. Jaskier admires him, his courage. Geralt is pleased that he joined too; it will be helpful to have someone who knows the terrain and find a suitable spot.

They find a small ruin of a house, a small square of stones outlining where it once was.There is a hole, almost big enough for a horse and a rider to go inside.

“This place used to be a secret temple,” The hunting master tells them. “They would have their priest living a humble life above it, and they would worship the elemental trapped down there. It was a slaughter when it got released.”

Geralt only hums at that, readying torches to go down and look. One never knows what might live down there already. Jaskier swallows around his fear and follows them all down, close behind the druid.

The tunnel leading down there is short and opens up into a bigger room. You can easily see where the elemental was held, stone pillars laying in disarray around the floor. It is dark, the torches barely able to light the corners of the far wall. Geralt hunches down, inspecting the scorched stones on the ground.

“This will do,” he says. “I should be able to lead it down here. We will have to try and get it to the same spot as the elemental was held, there is residual magic we can use to block it’s path. There is enough water in here to freeze it.”

The druid nods his agreement, the huntsman standing by the mouth of the tunnel looking tense.

“How will we get out?” he asks, and Geralt gives Jaskier a quick glance as he looks around.
There are no obvious escapes, no hidden little alcoves or roots to climb up.

“That is why we need to get it to the same place.” Geralt says, the flickering lights from the torches making his face look sharp and dangerous. “There is only one out of here.”

Jaskiers heart sinks.

Fuck.

He is already regretting being here, but fuck, how can he let Geralt do this alone? The answer is, he can’t. He can’t help, and he can’t be in the way and he can’t be alone.

He is a burden.

Nobody says anything else about getting out, and the druid and Geralt goes about setting their trap. Jaskiers anxiety is rising as time passes, every sound from outside makes the hair on his arms rise, his heart is beating fast and his hands clammy with cold sweat.

Geralt glances at him every now and then, no doubt picking up on his mood. But he can’t afford to focus on Jaskier. No.

So Jaskier makes himself smile a little, and Geralt returns to his tasks.

When it’s done, Jon leads them inside the stone circle of the house above. He aims to be directly above the trap, closing it and letting Geralt out while being safe.

Now the trick is to make the flesh golem come to them.

The huntmaster and Geralt set out among the trees. Their steps are quickly silenced by the mist, and there is a tense stillness resting around them. Jaskier and Jon stand waiting without speaking. Jaskier is changing his weight from foot to foot, fiddling with the hem of his tunic and trying not to panic. Jon is rubbing his hands together, his eyes closed, his forehead lined with effort for whatever he is doing.

Ten minutes pass in silence. Another 15 and Jaskier is trying very hard to stand still, be quiet. Fear is tugging at him, and he finds he is rubbing at the scar on his chest absently.

Fuck.

He pushes his arms to his sides, when the tug suddenly is something else.

A call.

“It’s here.” Jaskier says quietly. The forest is still quiet, still nothing but the tugging to warn them. Then comes the smell. The sickly, dead smell that makes bile rise in his throat.

Jon opens his eyes and stares at Jaskier. There is something in that look that makes Jaskier squirm, but there is no time to analyze it. Geralt rushes into the clearing where they stand, there is blood running down his cheek and his hair is wild. Jaskier can’t see the huntmaster.

 

The call is much louder now. His limbs are twitching, wanting him to move closer. Instead he falls to his knees, hitting a rock, letting the pain focus him on staying.

He wonders if his body calls to the golem too?

Then the first pale flesh is seen among the trees. In its wake, the grass is turning brown and black, the smell getting stronger the closer it gets. It’s even worse than last time.

It slowly makes its way after Geralt, one of it’s heads focused on him, half an arm outstretched in an attempt to grab at him. Geralt is closer to it than Jaskier is comfortable with, but there is no way around it.

There is a violent yank on his heart, his vision full of black spots and he is thrown forwards. Jon stares down on him, all the while maintaining that complicated thing he is doing with his hands. Jaskier blinks hard a few times, and when he looks up his eyes meet with one of the golem's heads.

It groans, and instead of going for the hole Geralt is leading it towards, it starts to move to the side, towards them.

“Fuck.” Geralt swears, and pulls out his silver sword. He aims a broad swipe across it. The golem blocks it casually with its arm, the blade cutting deep into its flesh and black icor welling up. Geralt pulls his sword free and takes a hasty step backwards as its attention is turned back on him. Jaskier is letting out a breath he didn’t know he was holding when their stare breaks.

It doesn’t take long for Geralt to lead it underground after that, disappearing out of sight. Jon closes his eyes again, raising his hands to the sky. It rumbles in reply, and he roars out a string of words in Elder. It gets cold really fast, ice crystals forming in the grass, making flowers curl in on themselves. Jaskier shivers and pulls his arms around himself.

Geralt yells his signal, the golem is in place, and Jon claps his hands together. The reaction is immediate, a booming sound resonating all around them.

And under them.

Jaskier can hear Geralt swear loudly, and sounds of fighting break out again. A woman's voice calls out in alarm, and Jon is holding on very tightly.

Something is very wrong.

The golem roars and Jon is shaking where he stands, and over it all Jaskier can hear Geralt's voice.

“YENNEFER!”

Chapter Text

Yennefer steps into the portaling circle and the next thing she knows is freezing cold.

There wasn’t supposed to be anyone here, but there is Geralt, dodging and cutting at a monster she thought she had left behind.
And the circle brought her right next to it.

One of it’s horrid heads turns towards her, dead eyes staring at her.

The scream rips from her throat without her meaning to, and Geralt finally sees her.

An arm, dead and stiff, lashes out towards Geralt, and he is hit over his shoulder. The hit connects with a heavy thud and sends Geralt sprawling to the floor.

He swears loudly, sword barely in his grip. Another dead arm lashes out towards Yennefer, its claws sharp. She blasts it out of the way more out of reflex than anything, and it barely misses her.

She backs up and Geralt scrambles to his feet, ready for the next attack. He sees it before she does, the abomination throwing itself towards her, jaws on its heads snapping.

 

“YENNEFER!” He shouts, and throws out an Aard. It does nothing to the abomination, but it sends Yennefer flying. Which is a good thing, because teeth click shut just where her waist was.

 

She falls without grace, scraping her knee and knocking the air out of her lungs. The hem of her dress tearing, and shit, that is going to make it so much harder to move about.

She wheezes, trying desperately to catch her breath and scrabble out of the way of the next attack. The golden hue of Quen catches her eye as another hit bounces off the witcher's magic.

They need to get away from the monster.

Yennefer looks around for a way out, vaguely remembering a stone portal along the far wall, opposite of where the elemental was trapped. Only, now it is a big hole. And the abomination in the way.

Yennefer's breath is starting to fog, and it’s getting colder by the minute.

 

“IT IS CLOSING, YOU NEED TO GET OUT OF THERE.” Someone booms outside, and the tingling sensation of magic dances across her skin as her fingers are growing numb with the cold.

Shit. Shit shit shit, that is not good.

 

Geralt’s Quen shatters, and the thing manages to cut along his ribs.

She can see his leather armor getting torn apart, silver studs falling to the ground.

She doesn’t think, doesn’t give herself the time for it. She runs towards Geralt, blasting the thing with an icy gust of magic, trying not to trip over her dress.

By now she has figured out what they are doing, and it seems to work. The cold is slowing it down and making it easier to move around.

Geralt is faltering, his sword dropping to the ground with a clang, his hand pressing against his tattered side.

Yennefer catches him by the elbow, and he grunts in pain. Blood is flowing in a thick stream, but there is no time. She pulls him back towards the portaling circle, throwing up her other hand to open it. Her fingers are numb and her breath is coming short. But it opens for her, just big enough for the two of them to push through.

 

 

 

 

Jaskier feels cold sweat trickle along his spine.

Jon is chanting, a long complicated line of words in Elder, and the air around them is crystal sharp. Frost is forming on the grass here and there, leaving white patches on the ruins around them.

Terror is running through Jaskiers body. He is useless, utterly useless, with no way to help either for them. He can’t hear anything but Jon, anything but the roaring of the trees.

Yennefer is down there. He doesn’t understand how or why, but she is down there with Geralt. And they can’t win.

 

“IT IS CLOSING, YOU NEED TO GET OUT OF THERE.” Jon roars, and Jaskier looks with wide eyes at the hole down there.

 

It is indeed closing, a barrier of magic and ice forming on its edges and spreading.

And Jaskier can’t see them coming out.

Fuck.
Fuck fuck fuck.

He is not supposed to move, not supposed to leave Jon, but he has to know, has to see.

Quickly he makes his way down the hill, avoiding the patches of frostbitten grass and circles away a little, ignoring how his body is trying to pull him closer. Just far enough away to see in, hopefully without pulling attention to himself.

Jaskier sees the flesh golem raise a clawed hand. He watches Geralt’s Quen shatter, and his sword fall to the floor. And Yennefer dragging a bleeding Geralt behind her and disappearing.

 

The golem turns around slowly, one of its many faces pointed directly at him.

Its movements are sluggish, but it is trying to make its way towards the barrier that is taking form. Jaskiers heart is working overtime, he can taste bile in the back of his throat, fear cutting through him. He can’t move, but he is being pulled forward anyway, one step at the time.

And then the ice seals the entrance shut, and Jaskiers body is his own again.

 

Slowly the ringing in his ears fade, and he can hear swearing and grunting behind him, and he spins around to find Geralt bleeding on the ground and Yennefer desperately trying to heal him. There is blood, too much blood. Geralt is pale, his eyes on Jaskier, a hand outstretched. Yennefer's hands hover over his ribs, her palms giving off a strong glow.

 

Jaskier rushes forward, heedless of the mess on the ground. He can feel the warm liquid seep through his trousers when he kneels down, grabbing Geralt's hand and putting the other on his too pale cheek.

“Geralt.” He can’t help but to think it is his fault. If he hadn’t gotten taken, they wouldn’t have been here. If he had stayed dead, Geralt wouldn’t have to-

“Jaskier, you are not helping. I can’t focus, just-” Yenenfer hisses, and right, she can hear his thoughts. And he still can’t help.

 

The despair rolls through him, but no, he can’t. Jaskier focuses instead on the feel of stubble under his thumb, how Geralt's hand still feels warm in his grip, how very golden those eyes are. On the familiar ache inside when Geralt gives a small smile, and fuck.

He is tearing up, fear and the helplessness clawing inside him. Geralt is watching him.

 

“Jaskier.” Geralt says quietly, even though it looks like it pains him.

“Shh, love, don’t speak. Yennefer is here, she is healing you right up, you will be as good as new.”

Geralt lifts the hand Jaskier is holding, bringing it up to Jaskiers face. It looks heavy, so Jaskier helps him, cradles Geralt's hand to his cheek as the first tears fall.
This is so unfair.

 

It feels like forever until Jon joins them. By then, Yennefer has done what she can, healing the worst of it and Jaskier is helping Geralt sit up. Together, they peel off his armor and Jon takes out the bandages from his bag. They expected someone to get hurt, just not this bad. Jaskier hands Geralt a bottle of Swallow and turns to Jon.

“Is it sealed? It can’t get out?” Jaskier asks, his voice shaking just a little and Geralt's hand still in his.

Jon nods, wiping the blood off his hands on a piece of fabric.

“It is. I will have to return every thirteen days and strengthen it, but it can’t get out. The woods should be able to heal now.”
Yennefer sits quietly against a tree, disheveled and pale. Magic takes its toll, and out of all of them, Jaskier is the only one not worse for wear. It feels bad.

“What is it?” She asks.

“A flesh golem. Unkillable until we find its creator, but it spreads death and disease where it goes, so the witcher here decided to trap it. A solid plan for now, but it won't hold forever.”
Yennefer nods slowly, and closes her eyes.

“I might be able to help with that.” She says. “But not now. How far away are we from the village?”

 

As they make their way through the mist, they come across the broken body of the hunt master. There is a big gash in his side, the edges of his skin taking on a grey taint. Jaskier has Geralt's good arm slung over his shoulders, and they stop for a second to look down on him.

“He was a brave man.” Geralt says. “He knew he didn’t stand a chance, but he came anyway.”

“Some might call that dumb.” Yennefer comments.

“Perhaps.” Geralt allows. “But we wouldn’t have come this far without him.”

“We should burn the body.” Yennefer says, kneeling down and lifting the dead man's clothing. “I don’t like the gray here, we don't want it to turn into another one.”

“It doesn’t work like that.” Geralt says to Jaskiers great relief, but they end up burning it anyway. Just to be safe.

 

 

Returning to the inn is a pitiful affair. The locals watch them warily when they get inside the door.

Geralt's wounds have reopened, blood soaking the bandages again. Jaskier offers Yennefer his empty room and helps Geralt into theirs.

He expects a little more time than he gets. Jaskier puts new bandages on the wounds, giving him another dose of swallow and tucks him in. The moment he breathes out, ready to curl up next to Geralt under the blankets, there is a soft knock on the door.


Jaskier sighs, tired and weary to his bones, but he opens up for Yennefer anyway. He knew it would be her.

“Can we talk?” She asks softly. He nods and steps out of their room, closing the door behind him.

 

Yennefer leads them back to Jaskiers room, and the moment he steps inside he knows he fucked up.

On the middle of the floor lies the chamber pot, dried drops of his blood on the bottom of it. He freezes, and Yennefer follows his looks to it.

“Something is very wrong Jaskier.” She says, looking at him wearily. “You are oozing of black magic. I'm surprised Geralt didn’t pick up on it.”

Jaskier draws in a ragged breath, the tugging of his heart getting painful.

“No beating around the bush with you witches, as usual.” He says, and walks to the bed and sits down without asking.

It was his bed first anyway. He kicks off his shoes and leans back against the wall, endlessly tired.

He doesn’t want to talk about it. Just thinking about it makes fear stick up its old, ugly head and he is so tired of it.

“Why is your blood in the pot? Because this is your room, wasn’t it?” She asks, and Jaskier closes his eyes and lets his head fall back against the wall with a thunk.

“Yes. I had to check something.”

“Jaskier.”

“Yennefer.”

“When I was healing Geralt, before. I could hear your thoughts.” Fuck. “What did you mean by ‘should have stayed dead’?”

Jaskiers breathing picks up, a wave of nausea running through him. It’s alright. He is safe. Yennefer is safe. Geralt is just on the other side of the wall.

“Yennefer. I’m very tired. Please.” Jaskier sounds small to his own ears. “It is a very long, very painful story that I… hm.”

Yennefer looks troubled. She can probably still sense his thoughts, but she leaves it alone. For now.

“I’m not sure I’m able to talk about it. I.. uh-...” Jaskier breaks off again, pushing the heels of his hands into his eyes, trying to press the memory of purple out, to keep from itching on the scar. The ringing picks up, and his breathing gets faster.

Calm. Calm. Please.

“I’m-” I’m going back to Geralt, he tries to say, but it wont come out.

 

 

He just stands up abruptly, avoiding looking at Yennefer, walking out of the room, one foot in front of the other carrying him back to safety, down under the covers and pressed against Geralt.

Calm.

Jaskier forces himself to listen to Geralt's breathing. Calm and deep in sleep. Watching his face, brow furrowed in slight pain. His heartbeat under his ear, beating strong.
Only then, when he is squeezing Geralt's arm to his chest, does he realize he forgot his shoes.

 

 

 

 

Yennefer looks after Jaskier.

She is tired, exhausted to a point where any magic feels like too much. But Jaskiers pain and panic tore through him so strongly she couldn’t help feeling them. They were familiar, somehow, even though she can’t place it.

What could possibly have happened for Jaskier to feel like that?
She will have to ask Geralt later. There is much they need to talk about.

She puts Jaskiers shoes and the chamberpot by the door and sits down heavily on the bed. She could order a bath.

The flesh golem really shook her up, made her feel dirty.

Later.

She digs out the Xenovox from her small bag, muttering the words to activate it.

“Yennefer? I didn’t expect you so soon.” Triss voice says through the box.

“I met the monster again. Was right outside the portal circle.”

“Shit. Are you alright?”

“Yes, but I will be staying away for a while. I met Geralt and Jaskier, and it seems they might have information on this.”

“Really? They know Basia?”

“They know about her monster. But Geralt is hurt and something is wrong with Jaskier, so it might take a while to make sense of things.”

They are silent for a second, and Yennefer leans back on the wall, like Jaskier did before.

“Are you alright, Yenna?” Triss asks gently, her voice a little distorted. Yennefer closes her eyes, squeezes the xenovox.

“Yes. It just. It’s been a very long day. How are the kings? Has she snared anyone yet?”
Before her eyes she can still see the fucking monster. It’s arms lashing out, cutting down Geralt like he was nothing. She shudders, opens her eyes to remind her of the now.

“Mostly fine. The local prat has not heard anything, but the neighbouring kingdom had sightings of a pale, dark haired sorceress. She seems to have put out vague threads for contact, but nothing yet. But I don’t trust her.”

“Have you figured out what the curse was that Philippa put on her?” Yennefer asks.

“No, but whatever it is, it’s bad. She is very tightlipped about it all. I think she knows more than she lets on.”

“Of course she does.” Yennefer scoffs. “I will see what I can get out of Geralt and Jaskier tomorrow. If they know anything of use.”

“Basia has laid a wide net indeed.”

“She has.” Yenenfer agrees, stifling a yawn.

“Sleep, Yenna.” Trissifers voice is soft, and Yennefer smiles, the room big and empty around her. It’s not the same when she is not here.

“I will. Good night, Triss.”

 

The magic dispatches, leaving Yennefer alone. The night is still young, but the terrors are still out there. And tomorrow she will have to deal with them.

 

Chapter 13

Notes:

Hello cuties, here we go, some more evil!

This chapter is a bit shorter, but there is more waiting for you soon! Im so excited!!!

Thank you a billion @Kuripaaan for betaing this, you are a pure piece of joy and you spoil me <3

(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)

Chapter Text

Jaskier wakes up slowly. He is aware of someone next to him, hot and still.
Too hot. And too still.
Burning hot, actually. Jaskier looks up to see Geralt’s face, very pale and covered in a sheen of sweat. He sits up quickly, dislodging the blankets as he does and stops dead in his tracks.
Shit, fucking, shit, no.
Geralt's bandages are soaked through, discolored grey, yellow and red. Why the fuck is it grey?!
He touches Geralt's face, but he doesn’t stir. His brows are furrowed and his breath is labored, and Jaskier can’t think. Yennefer, he has to fetch Yennefer.

He throws himself out of bed and into the corridor, floor cold against his bare feet. He skids to a halt and pounds on her door.

“Yennefer! Yen, please! Something is wrong with Geralt!” He yells, not caring who else he wakes up, not caring about anything else.
He can’t lose him.

Yennefer throws open the door looking disheveled, curls a tangled mess and a wrinkle on her cheek from the pillow. Were his mind not occupied with Geralt, he would probably have teased her about it.

“The wound, there is something wrong with it. I think-” Jaskier starts, but Yennefer doesn’t let him finish. She grabs a robe and shoves past him.
She rushes into the room and goes straight to the bed, pressing her hand to his clammy forehead.

“He’s cold,” she says, and then she leans down to the bandages, sniffing at them. “This is not good. Come help me lift him.”
Jaskier rushes over, and together they pull Geralt up into a sitting position. Jaskier takes most of his weight, holding him in a half hug as Yennefer cuts the bandages away.
As soon as they come off, the smell becomes strong enough for Jaskier to notice. He almost gags. It is terrible and familiar and sweet like death.

“Fuck,” he swears.

When Yennefer prods and pushes at the wound, Geralt groans quietly. It must hurt so bad, and Jaskier feels his anxiety rising.

“We need to get to Philippa,” Yennefer states, raising up and wiping her hands on the bed covers. They are ruined anyway.

“Who?”

“An …. acquaintance of mine. We need her for this. I can portal us back there, but I might need that druid's assistance. It took a lot out of me yesterday.”

Jaskier nods weakly, not sure what else to do.

They lay him down again, Jaskier tasked with going to the innkeeper for hot water, and for someone to fetch the duid. Meanwhile, Yennefer stalks into her room and slams the doorThrough the door, Jaskier can hear voices.

 

Jon arrives about an hour later, and by then they have cleaned out the wound best they can and put new bandages on him. The knock on the door comes as Jaskier puts the last of their things down into their pack.

“Excellent,” Yennefer says by greeting. “Are there any places of power nearby?”

Jon wrinkles his nose when he enters the room, no doubt smelling the sweet rot too.

“Not nearby, but we can get to it. It would seem the witcher was wrong about it not spreading like that.”

Jaskier decides he does not like the druid. At all.

Yennefer throws an assessing look over Geralt, who still hasn’t regained consciousness for more than a minute.

“We could make it work. I’m assuming Roach is in the stables?” She asks, this time aimed at Jaskier. He nods, still holding onto Geralt's cold hand.

“And Wilk,” he confirms.

“You got yourself a horse? Since when?” Yennefer asks in surprise, but Jaskier just presses his lips together.

“I don’t think the bard should be near him,” Jon says suddenly and both of their heads whip around towards him.

“Why not?!” Jaskier asks, his voice shrill. It is all he can do to keep his own fear at bay.

“It called to you. You could feel it. Maybe you call to it now,” Jon says.

 

Fuck.

FUCK.

 

Jaskier lets go of Geralt's hand as if burned, and backs away from the bed. There is no stopping the tears, his breath coming fast. Fuck.

 

“What does that mean?” Yennefer asks slowly, watching them closely.

“Something in him is connected to that thing. You felt it coming, and it tried to draw you in, didn’t it?”

Jon looks at Jaskier, but Jaskier can barely see him. He sinks to the floor, back against the wall and pants through his tears.
He did this. He did this to Geralt. This is his fault. If he wasn't here, then Geralt would be fine. The scar itches, and the ringing is there again.

 

There is a hand on Jaskier's knee, small and warm, and then another one under his chin. Yennefer makes him look at her, her face calm but stern.

“Breathe, bard.”

His chin tickles, she is probably doing something magic on him, but it helps.

“Good,” she says, her eyes holding him steady, never blinking.

“Jon, may I bother you with getting the horse saddled? There is a money pouch on the desk.” Yennefer instructs without letting Jaskier go.
It is a dismissal, and Jaskier is grateful for it.

The door clicks closed, and they are alone.

 

“I need you to talk to me, Jaskier,” she says evenly. “You don’t need to tell me everything yet, but I need to know. Why did it call to you?”
Jaskier breathes hard, fear tugging hard on his heart. But the hand on his knee steadies him, the tickling on his chin grounding him in this moment.

 

“Because I am dead.”

Notes:

:)))))))))

Chapter Text

Yennefer stares at Jaskier. She hears him, she absolutely does, she is just not processing the words. The way he looks at her, eyes wide and terrified, she is sure he at least thinks it is true.
But he is warm. There was blood in his room. He smells… he smells like soap, actually. Nothing else. Which is odd.

But she can’t ask him more now, or he might break down again. It can wait. The main thing here is Geralt. What the fuck is going in here.

“Thank you,” she says, keeping her voice even. “We don’t know if what Jon said is true. I am going to need your help, and whatever it is, he needs to get to Philippa. Can I trust you with this?”

Yennefer looks at him, sees him calming down, collecting himself.
Jaskier nods slowly, and Yennefer lets go of him.

“Good.”

She stands up and prepares their things. They will likely have to strap Geralt to the saddle, if she can manage to make a portal that big for long enough. She talked to Triss before, they know they are on their way at least. They have set up a portal circle for her to connect with on the other side, outside of town. Having a horse indoors is something she will experience just the once, thank you very much.
After a moment, Jaskier is by her side. He doesn’t approach Geralt again, even if he gives him anxious looks every now and then. She sends him downstairs with the bags to meet Jon and the stable boys. She is not sure they can take Wilk.

If so, maybe Jon can take care of the creature.

 

It takes all three of them to get Geralt down the stairs. The innkeeper holds the door for them, his wife standing behind the counter looking scared.
Outside, Roach is worried, smelling the something on her Witcher. She is stepping around, fidgety, and Wilk is the one who ends up carrying Geralt.

Jon leads them back into the forest, and she hopes to every god and spiritual power out there that they are not going back to that thing. Jon throws glances at Jaskier over his shoulder, and Jaskier either doesn’t notice or he pretends not to.

He leads them towards a small hill, with the smallest of springs on top. There is a runestone set in front of it, and she can feel the low hum of magic when they get closer. Place of Power, indeed. Druids are hiding some big secrets, it would seem.

Jon makes Jaskier stop, standing below while Yennefer climbs up. He instructs her to stand in the spring barefoot, and the moment her feet touch the water, her skin lights up. It is a familiar sensation, warm and comforting, and she knows why so many mages abuse these kinds of places.

Wasting no more time, she moves her hands in front of her. Portals have always come easily for her, but this one will require more chaos to bring them all through. She pulls on the power, Jon watching her sternly. She thinks of safety, of brown warm curls and a gentle smile.

 

The round shape pops into existence in front of Jaskier, dark and swirling. The horses spook a bit, jostling Geralt in Wilks' saddle, but Jaskier calms them easily.
Triss walks through the portal and walks straight up to Wilks, taking his reins. They all know Roach can be a bit tricky when Geralt can’t help her, so they let Jaskier take her.

Triss sends Yennefer a look, their eyes locking for a second, and then she is gone again. The horse and Geralt disappear with her, and Jaskier too shoots Yennefer a look. Sweat is pearling in her hairline, despite the extra help. Fuck, these past two days have been draining. She nods in confirmation, and Jaskier leads Roach through the portal.

“Will you make it through in time?” Jon asks when they are out of sight. “Can you hold it?”

“I can.”

“Good. Keep an eye on the bard. He seems sweet, but there is someone pulling the strings on that one.”

That was… very fucking cryptic. He meets her gaze calmly, waiting for her reply.

“We will. Is the.. Thing? The flesh golem, is it contained?”

“I will make sure it is.” Jon nods. They part without another word, the portal shrinking when she steps out of the small spring. But staying open. She feels colder, but walks down the grassy slope with swift steps and through the inky darkness of the portal.

 

 

Jaskier should have expected Triss to come through the portal, but it still surprises him. It was most likely her voice he heard through the door to Yennefer's room, and now she grabs the reins out of his hands and looks at Yennefer.

Their gaze was full of meaning, full of words, and Triss disappears through the portal, leading Wilk and Geralt behind her. Jaskier doesn’t like it. Not one bit. He too looks at Yennefer, his heart tugging hard, strangely torn. The thing has been calling to him since they entered the forest, and it calls to him now. But it also leads him towards Geralt. She nods at him, confirming and somehow calming him.

She keeps the portal open for them, for him and Roach. She wants him to go to his witcher.

Geralt.

No wait. The witcher. Not his.

He grips Roach's reins and talks to her soothingly as they pass through. He has only ever been through one once before, and he barely remembers it. Turns out, it is much more pleasant than last time, given that he's not wearing a sack over his head and his ribs aren't aching.

 

On the other side is another open patch of grass. It seems the portal is anchored to a circle of stones, etched with runes. He looks around, finding two unfamiliar women helping Triss take Geralt off Wilks' back.
He lets go of Roach's reins, hurrying towards Geralt to help. But only a few steps away he falters. What if he really makes it worse?
Triss spots him, probably sees how troubled he is.

“You alright, Jaskier? Are you hurt?” she asks while lowering Geralt to the grass gently. The other two women spot him then, and suddenly Jaskier feels naked. He doesn’t know these women, most likely sorceresses, but he takes a wild guess that one of them is Philippa.

He swallows, throat dry, and takes a step back.

“Yes,” he says. “Help him. Please.”

He sounds desperate to his own ears, like a plea. Triss watches him for a moment longer, probably seeing so much more than he wants her to, but then she turns her focus on Geralt.
The sun is climbing over the trees and there's bird song and the soft buzz of insects all around. He hates it. Hates how cheerful it is when this day is only getting worse.

 

The swirling sound of the portal stops with a pop, and Yennefer hurries past him towards Geralt. She puts her hand on his shoulder as she passes, more reassuring than he ever knew her to be, but it helps.

“We have to move him,” the blond witch says, kneeling down next to Geralt with a hand on his wrist.

“No time,” says the brown-haired woman with braids. “We have to do it here.”

Without preamble, she fishes out a knife from her belt, and much like Yennefer did this morning, she cuts away the bandages. Even from where Jaskier stands, he can tell it is worse. The grey something is oozing from the wound, dripping down on the grass below. The grass instantly curls in on itself, turning a sickly brown.
Just like in the forest.
Fuck.

Jaskier can’t. He fucking can’t.

He turns around, unsure where to go, but there are tears again, hot, angry, upset. His fists are clenched so hard, his palm throbbing in pain. Good. He deserves it.
Tend to Roach. That he can do. He has apples in their packs, and she deserves to be without that saddle for a while.
He gives her all his attention, ignoring Geralt's drawn out groan, the chanting, the smell.

 

“It’s the curse,” He hears one of them say. “She has found a way to use it.”

 

Then there is a flash of light, bright blue, and Jaskier's knees buckle. It is not her, it is not the purple flash that killed him, but it feels real, so real. Pain lances through him and tears cloud his vision, a scream tearing from his throat. Fuck.

His limbs feel stiff, unfamiliar, not his own.

And then everything goes black.

Chapter Text

Yennefer feels the air change. She doesn’t think about it at first. Philippa's chanting and a flashing blue light filling her vision.

But then Jaskier screams, hoarse and desperate.
Her head whips around and she sees him sitting stiffly next to Roach. She is shying from him, the whites of her eyes showing, and then she feels it. The wrongness.

Jaskier slowly stands up, his movements slow and uneven.
Someone else is pulling his strings’, Jon had said, and she might believe it now.

Yennefer gets to her feet and stands between the witches and Jaskier. Her heart thunders in her chest, fear and anger coursing through her.
She is starting to see the pattern. It reeks of Basia, the foul magic sticky in the back of her throat. Jaskier turns towards them, and his eyes are grey and unseeing.

 

A shiver runs up her spine.
He looks dead. Every bit as dead as he thinks he is.


But the blood in the pot was red? She doesn’t understand how, but nothing about Jaskier seems alive right now.
He takes one wobbly step after another towards them, and Yennefer can only watch him approach. What can she do? She can’t hurt him.

 

 

She takes a step forward to meet him. If she could survive Sodden, she can survive this.

“Let him go,” she says loudly to Jaskier.

 

Jaskier's lips cracks into a smile and a wheezing laugh comes from his throat.

 

“Then he will truly be dead,” someone says with Jaskiers voice.

 

Anger helped her back then. Maybe it can again..

 

“What do you want, Basia?!” she asks loudly, letting anger project her voice.

“Everything,” Jaskier's voice wheezes back.
It is like a slap in the face. Would this have been her, if not destiny had not laid itself in her path? Was this something she could have turned into in her hunt for power?

“What did you do to Geralt?” she asks instead, and Jaskier's body wheezes a laugh again.

“What did I do? Nothing. Philippa’s curse is eating him away, feeding on his body and leaving only a husk behind,” Jaskier says gleefully. “Just like the bard will do to you now.”

 

Enough.

 

She throws up her arm, commanding the grass beneath Jaskier's feet to do her bidding. It obeys, growing into vines and snares Jaskier's body in a tight grip. He doesn’t fight it, or maybe he can’t. Maybe Basia can’t control him completely, or she is allowing him to be caught.
Yennefer doesn’t like it, not one bit. But there are more important things happening right now, and she turns back to Geralt.

Philippa is holding a clenched fist over Geralt's side, her blood dripping down through her clenched fingers. Her eyes are tightly closed, and she chants something old, something she barely understands bits and pieces of.

Sabrina and Triss are holding Geralt, holding each other and Geralt, healing him as Philippa works.

She can see the wound opening more, the grey gore being pulled towards Philippa's blood gathered on a small metal plate in the grass in front of her. She is pulling it out, she realizes. Using her own blood to tear out whatever poison is eating Geralt, forcing it out of his body.

 

Yennefer shoots Jaskier a glance, seeing that he is not fighting the vines and stares at them intently. It’s like Basia is watching, and she doesn’t like it.


Yennefer throws up a bubble of silence around Jaskier, filling it with darkness, too, for good measure. She can’t see Jaskier, but Basia sure as hell is not allowed to see what is breaking this curse.

She grabs Triss’ hand, lacing their fingers together tightly, and lays a hand on Geralt's chest to assist.

 

It almost takes them an hour, the sun now high in the sky, when Philippa has managed to separate the rot from Geralt. It is gathered on the metal platter, and Sabrina is asked to place it in a glass jar. Philippa is holding her fist close to her chest, far away from the rot.

As soon as the jar is sealed, both with a lid and magically, they look over Geralt one last time. His wound is closed, only pink, jagged lines remaining as a memory of yet another brush with death. He should wake up soon.

“What was that?” Triss asks, her voice wavering a little, her fingers still holding Yennefer's in a tight grip.

“The curse I put on Basia. It feeds on magic,” Philippa says, confirming what Jaskier had said before.

 

Jaskier.

Yennefer whips around, the bubble still around the bard, still dark.
She reluctantly lets go of Triss’s hand, standing up stiffly and moves over. She dispatches the darkness first, afraid of what she will find.

Geralt would never forgive her if Jaskier is hurt.

 

Jaskier seems alright. His arms are still held tight by the vines, but his head has fallen to his chest. She gives him another moment, waiting to see if Basia is still there, if she's noticed. But nothing happens, so she tears down the bubble and steps close to the seemingly unconscious bard.

She cups his cheeks, angling his face upwards so she can see his eyes. They are closed, so she rearranges her grip in order to pull one of his eyelids open.
The pupil is back to that startling blue, but it’s unresponsive to the bright sunlight. The color is back in his cheeks too, skin warming under her touch.

 

It is when she helps him lay down on the grass when she notices his hands. His ever-moving hands, now still for her to inspect.
It makes sense. So much sense, but it still makes her nauseated.

The last knuckle on Jaskier's pinkie is missing. The pain she read in him before, familiar because she felt it before. On that stone slab, far underground.

Yennefer can’t help it as she rears back from him. She snatches her hand back and backs up, still on her knees.

 

“Fuck!” She swears loudly. “FUCK!”

Triss comes up behind her and puts a hand on her shoulder, but Yennefer shies away from that too. Triss looks hurt, but Yennefer can’t deal with that right now.

“He’s dead,” she says. “He really is fucking dead!”

“Who is?” Triss asks confusedly and looks at the bard. “Him?”

“Yes,” Yennefer whispers, and Triss moves over to Jaskier's body. She leans down, hair falling over her shoulder as she examines him.

“He is alive,” she tells Yennefer. “But there is something really dark in there with him.”

“Yennefer is right,” Philippa says from above them, and they look up. “The man is dead, and he is Basia's puppet. We should burn him.”

“NO!” Yennefer yells, “Are you out of your fucking mind?!”

 

Philippa looks at her, puzzled.

 

“I thought it was the witcher you cared about? Do you know this man too?”

“This is Julian Alfred Pankratz, Viscount de Lettenhove. Also known as the famous bard and poet Jaskier,” Triss says, and they both stand up, staying between Philippa and Jaskier. “He happens to also be a friend of mine.”

Something comforting curls up in Yennefer's chest. To have Triss's support, to have her stand by her side, it’s thrilling, even when everything else is complete shit.

“Alright,” Philippa says slowly. “What do you suggest we do then?”

“Nothing, for now,” Yennefer begs, exhaustion creeping in. “Let’s bring them inside. We need to talk to them.”

 

 

 

Jaskier comes awake slowly. He aches, feeling stiff and cold, and he doesn't know where he is. He has a sinking feeling, fear curling deep in the pit in his stomach. He is so sick of being scared, he hates this.

But it’s not a stone slab underneath him, at least, no ringing silence deafening him. He seems to be lying on a floor, and when he opens his eyes he can see that that is indeed the case. The room around him is empty, the only furniture a heavy desk along the wall. His eyes feel dry, and he blinks. It doesn’t help.


He coughs and gets up on his elbow, trying to piece his fragmented memories back together. Geralt is hurt. Fuck, he is hurt, and Jaskier is making it worse. There was a blue light and pain and -

No.
No no no no, did it happen again?

Before panic can set in properly, Yennefer appears through a door and looks down on him.

“Can you sit?” she asks, her voice strangely cold.

Jaskier nods slowly, not trusting his voice and forces himself up. He finds he is close to a wall, so he leans back against it. Last night feels so far away, but here they are again.

“Geralt-” he croaks, but Yennefer cuts him off.

“He’s safe. Sleeping.”

There is silence then, for a long time. Jaskier swallows, but his tongue is dry in his mouth. Yennefer notices and takes pity, throwing a waterskin towards him.

Not coming closer.

Not since he told her, and not since-

The waterskin thuds to the floor, his heavy limbs too tired to catch it.

“I’m sorry,.” Jaskier says.

“How are you alive?” She asks, as always straight to the point.

“I'm not.”

“Yet your blood is red. Your skin is warm, at least now. Jaskier, she took your body. You need to tell me more.”

“I really don’t know, Yennefer,” Jasker says, hating it. Hating everything. Flashes of memories dance behind his eyes, and he takes a deep breath. “I don't understand it myself. I am not sure I am supposed to.”

Yennefer crouches down in front of him, meets his eye. She is probably skimming the surface of his thoughts, and fuck it. Let her. It’s easier.

He thinks of the crack in the ceiling, the damp walls. The pain in his ribs, his fingers. His voice, horse and broken, and the knife.

Jaskier feels strangely detached from it all. Just a touch on each painful memory, and then flash forward to the next. The many nights in the dungeon, the woman's hair against his face, his torturer's laugh.

Yennefer stands back up again.

“I’m sorry, Jaskier. Does Geralt know?”

“He found me...after. Brought me out. Nothing else.”

“I see. Well, we are going to have to do his favorite thing when he is up. Talk about it.”

 

 

Chapter Text

Yennefer watches Geralt wake up.

She has a lot to think about, a lot to take in, but things are finally starting to make sense. She is starting to learn the pieces on the board.

The sun is setting outside, the entire day passed by in a strange haze. She watches the shadows stretch across the floor as Geralt stirs, groans, and then finally opens his eyes.

“Jaskier?” Geralt says, and by the gods, these idiots. Yennefer rolls her eyes at him, how is this the first thing out of both of their mouths?

“Awake. Shaken up, but alright. No, you can’t see him yet.”

Geralt frowns at that, but makes no comment. He shifts, lifts his arms, and realizes he is no longer in pain.

“Where are we?”

“We are in one of the Lodge's safehouses. The flesh golem gave you some kind of infection, likely linked to a curse from it’s creator. You almost died.”

Geralt blinks.

“You saved me?” He asks carefully. True, the dragon hunt changed many things, but it stings that he would ever doubt it.

“You are my friend,” is all she says. “As is the bard.”

Geralt's eyebrows climb higher, and Yennefer feels like that is about enough.

“Get dressed. When you are ready, come downstairs. There are a lot of things to plan.”

She gets up and leaves him to it. Once, she would have stayed and enjoyed the view, but now? He is not hers anymore.

Yennefer steps outside and walks down the stairs, pretending not to see Jaskier hiding around a corner.

Philippa didn’t want them together yet, but it would be cruel to let Geralt be the last one to know, and in front of everybody at that.

Her mind flashes with Jaskier's memories, vivid and clear.

Basia will burn for this.

 

 

 

Geralt dresses slowly. His wound, or rather his scar, isn’t too bad, but all his limbs are sore and stiff. He starts easy, with his trousers. And socks.
That is how Jaskier finds him, shirtless and bent forward off the bed, trying to make the socks cooperate. Geralt is only a little surprised to see him, but he doesn’t expect Jaskier to look so sad and guilty. He finally gets the sock on his foot and sits up.

Jaskier is leaning back against the door, deep in thought, staring at the floor.

“Are you alright, Jaskier?” Geralt asks quietly, and Jaskier startles.

“Yes. Sorry. They don’t want me to be in here but ah-....”

Geralt tilts his head in question at that. It is not as if it’s the first time Geralt is hurt, and Jaskier usually is there for him.

It is not like he can spread any kind of disease or something. Hefeels better when Jaskier is around.

He shouldn’t rely on him so much, especially not now when Jaskier has been through so much.

But Geralt is selfish.

“Come here?” he asks, patting the bed beside him. Jaskier looks as if struck by lightning.

“I… I…”

Why does he look like that? Geralt can’t put his finger on the feeling, but he looks scared.

“I’m alright. Yennefer healed me,” Geralt tries to assure him, but Jaskier presses his mouth into a thin line, frowning. “Sit with me? Please?”

It is strange. Last he remembers, before the blackness and the pain and the heat, it was Jaskier's body pressed to his in sleep. Jaskier's hand splayed on his chest, his ear over his heart. He wants Jaskier closer again.

He shouldn’t, but he does.

“I can’t. You almost died.”

Oh.

He looks down at himself, at his bare torso, and puts two fingers on his new scar. The skin is an angry pink and feels tight, but it doesn’t hurt.

“I've almost died plenty of times,” Geralt says.

“Not like this,” Jaskier says, eyes boring holes into the floor.

It had hurt, he remembers. Like it was burning him from the inside out.

“What happened?” he asks. Jaskier looks like he doesn’t want to answer.

“Your wound, it… it soured. The flesh golem put something in you through the wound and it spread and I-” Jaskier clicks his teeth shut, biting off his own words.

Geralt waits, letting him find his words. It takes some time, and Geralt watches him all the while.

“I made it worse. It’s my fault,” Jaskier says so quietly, Geralt almost doesn’t hear.

“Jaskier.”

Jaskier doesn’t look at him, stares at the floor.

“Jaskier.”

Finally he looks up.

“It wasn’t your fault.”

Jaskier opens his mouth. Closes it.

“I need to tell you something,” he says quietly, and it breaks Geralt's heart.

Geralt waits again. Jaskier looks like hell. While he is rubbing at his wrist, the shirtsleeve rides up and reveals a dark bruise.
When did he get that? Protectiveness rushes up in him and he sits straighter. But he waits on the bed.

 

“I died,” he whispers. “I died in that cave.”

“What do you mean?” Geralt asks softly, his heart breaking for Jaskier.

“She killed me.” Big tears well up in Jaskier's eyes. “She stabbed me in the chest, right here, and I died.”

 

Three wide steps later, Geralt is in Jaskier's space, wrapping his arms around him, and holding him tight.

Jaskier squirms at first, trying to get away, but then something breaks in him, and he sobs in the crook of Geralt's neck, his fingers like claws on his back.

 

“You can’t be dead. I can hear your heartbeat,” Geralt says, trying to comfort him, trying to understand. “I can feel your warmth.”

“It’s not a heartbeat," Jaskier mumbles. “It’s her, tugging me closer.”

They hold each other for a moment longer, taking comfort in the other's presence. Geralt can feel Jaskier gathering himself up, trying to make the words come. It makes Geralt ache.

“Do you remember the forest?” Jaskier whispers, pushing his forehead down on Geralt's shoulder, hiding. He sounds so broken.

“I remember,” Geralt says, tightening his grip.

“She took me. Took my body. She keeps my heart beating, and she moves my body like a puppet on a string.”

Jaskier shivers and takes a deep breath.

“I am sure I am dead, Geralt.”

Geralt doesn’t know what to say. Dread curls in the bottom of his gut, from Jaskier's own fear, from his words.

It's hard to believe as he holds Jaskier in his arms, warm, breathing, smelling clean and soft. Jaskier's hair tickles his nose, and he fights the urge to bury his face in it.

“You don’t feel dead,” Geralt murmurs.

“I barely bleed.”

“What?”

“I have no smell. I feel cold most of the time.”

“Jaskier.”

“The thing, the flesh golem. It called to me. I felt it approaching, it found me.”

“Look at me, Jaskier.”

 

But Jaskier pushes him away, shoves at his bare chest with both hands. Geralt lets himself be pushed, giving Jaskier the space his actions asks for.
Jaskier's eyes are red, salty tear tracks on his stubbly cheeks.

“And when I was near you, I called to what it left in you. I made it worse. I almost killed you, Geralt. If it wasn’t for me-”

Geralt has heard enough.

He stays at arm's length, but he reaches over and puts two fingers over Jaskier's mouth, shutting him up.

His lips are soft under Geralt's fingers, and a little wet.

 

How can he be dead when he is so many things?

 

“If it wasn’t for you, where would I be? Who would I be?”

Jaskier is silent, his breath coming out harshly through his nose. Geralt's fingers stay on Jaskier's lips. He won’t let himself think about why.

“I… I might not really understand what you are telling me. Not yet. There are so many how’s and why’s. I suspect Yennefer knows?”

Jaskier nods, another tear forming and falling down his cheek. Geralt watches its descent, and how it clings to his jaw.

“We will figure this out. You and me.”

Geralt steps back into Jaskier's space, moving his hand and letting it rest on his neck, and then he leans his forehead against Jaskiers.

“I won’t lose you again.” he mumbles, closing his eyes, feeling Jaskiers shuddering breaths against his face. “Whatever happens, I will stay with you.”

“Geralt.” Jaskier says, and his arms wrap around his chest again. And Geralt finally gives in. He shifts, and presses his nose into Jaskier's soft hair. Breathes him in.

No, he doesn’t have a smell.
Just the underlying scent of soap, horse and grass.

There are words on the tip of his tongue. Dangerous words.

Jaskier shifts too, his nose a little cold against Geralt's neck. Just three words, and everything would change.

Because Geralt knows now. After all these years, after all they have been through, Geralt finally knows. He swallows thickly and holds Jaskier tighter.

He fears it. Dreads it.

 

~

Jaskier focuses on his breathing. On every beat of his heart, every in and out from his lungs.

Fear, regret and relief runs through him, fighting to get the upper hand. Geralt's hand on his neck steadies him, grounds him in the moment.

He did it. He told Geralt what he is.

What he did.

The terrible guilt and raging dread is still there, and he feels bad for holding onto Geralt.

What if it comes back?

Jaskier feels selfish, but the only thing keeping him upright at this moment is Geralt's warmth against him. His nose in his hair.

He shouldn’t. What if Geralt gets worse again?

The fluttery feeling, the aching of his abused heart, it all comes rushing to the surface.

The yearning comes back, jolting through him and making him burrow deeper into the crook of Geralt's neck.

This time he can’t fight it.

He inhales slowly, taking in Geralt's smell, and he finally realizes

 

Geralt is shirtless.

His skin is burning hot under his palms.

He slides them over Geralt's sides, feeling his muscles and ribs and raised scars.

Geralt pulls back, but he doesn’t let go.

 

They are standing so close together, faces inches apart. Geralt's eyes are gentle, something in them makes Jaskier ache.

He really can’t fight it.

He never could.

He lost long ago.

 

Jaskier is deeply, desperately in love with Geralt, and it has only gotten worse since Geralt found him again.

It’s been there all along, buried in his heart and hidden behind walls as high as the sky. They come crumbling down without hesitance as his hand comes to rest over Geralt's heart.

 

They are so close. Geralt's eyes dip to Jaskier's lips, and Jaskier burns.

He leans back against the door, and Geralt follows, unwilling to let him go.

Jaskier can’t breathe, can’t move.

Geralt's hand is still on his neck, his thumb is stroking gently. Geralt tilts his head slightly, leaning in.

Their noses touch. Geralt smiles softly at him, as their eyes meet again.

“Together,” he whispers, their lips so close, they are almost brushing.

Fuck.

Jaskier is breaking, aching, yearning, wanting.

He too tilts his head, angles his chin upwards just a little.

 

 

There is a loud banging on the door.


Jaskier startles badly, flinching away from the sound at the same time as Geralt pulls him from the door.

Their legs tangle and they almost lose their balance.

Yennefer's voice calls loudly through the door.

 

“Come on, Geralt! Get dressed already!”

Jaskier stares at the door, heart in his throat, Geralt's arms still around him.

And then he looks at Geralt and realizes again he is in the mid dressing.

Jaskier's cheek burns, and he laughs nervously.

“They are probably waiting for us downstairs,” he says faintly, reluctant to let go.

Jaskier has been close to many people, but he has never felt so alive as when Geralt's nose brushes his cheek gently, the hope and promise for something more.

“Geralt!” Yennefer yells again, and Geralt sighs loudly and steps back, turning around to find his other sock.

Chapter Text

The room is thick with tension.


Geralt looks angry, and Jaskier can feel the panic bubbling in his chest. Triss looks outraged, and Yennefer looks vaguely ill. The blond sorceress introduced to him as Sabrina keeps fiddling with her rings. The woman Jaskier correctly identified as Philipa looks sternly around the table.

“We are not killing him,” Triss repeats, and Geralt's agreeing grunt joins in.

“All I’m saying is that he is hers to use. She can take him whenever she wants. He is nothing but a puppet on her string, alive only to fill her need.”

Nobody says anything for a long while. Jaskier stares down at the table, eyes tracing the curls in the wood.

“Her magic is limited,” Philippa says. “The curse I put on her feeds on her magic, weakening her. I suspect that with her apprentice, a lot of doors have been opened.

“I didn’t realize she perfected the ceremony,” Philippa continues. ”With this, she could take any man, wrap him around her finger. She could take kings, rule everything. It must have taken her many years.”

“And at least one flesh golem,” Geralt mutters.

“Two,” Yennefer corrects, looking far away. Jaskier guesses that she has met the other one.

“So we need to take her down, before she gets any stronger,” says Triss.

“She saw you working on Geralt's wound through Jaskier's eyes before I blinded him. She might have figured out pieces to work on the curse,” Yenenfer says, and shame runs through Jaskier. If he were stronger, if he were… anyone else, someone useful, he might have been able to hold her off.

“Wait,” Geralt says. “The flesh golem is undone only if she breaks her hold or if she dies. What happens to Jaskier if we fight her?”

 

Jaskier has never hated silence more.

 

“He dies,” Philippa confirms.

 

Jaskier's scar itches. His fingers ache. The ringing in his ears is coming back, and his breath is running short. He doesn’t want to die. Doesn’t want that cold.
He looks across the table at Geralt, sees the anger and helplessness in his eyes.

“Kill her,” Jaskier says. “End it. I am already dead.”

Geralt's head whips around and they stare at each other.

“I won’t allow it,” Geralt growls. Something pleased but utterly hopeless curls in the pit of Jaskier's stomach.

Something warm, soft and useless.

“What else can we do, Geralt?” Jaskier asks. “It’s not a hard trade. We can’t let her take more people. I can feel her tug with every beat of my heart. It’s clearly the lesser evil.”

 

The chair scrapes loudly against the floor when Geralt stands up, looking furious. There is something behind those eyes, and Jaskier hates it.

Hate, hate, hates what he must do to his witcher.

Yennefer's head turns, and she stares, surprised at Geralt.

“Sit down, witcher,” Philippa says cooly. “We are not done.”

“I am not trading his life for someone else's.”

“.... There might be another way.”

 

 

 

Jaskier sits alone in the room he woke up in. Outside, darkness has fallen again, separating him from the world.

There is a soft knock on the door, and Yennefer enters. There aren't any chairs, no bed, nothing in here, so she sits down next to him, leaning back against the wall.

“This is so fucked up,” she says conversationally.

“It is,” Jaskier agrees. He wonders where his lute is.

If this is to be his last night alive, he wants to feel the strings under his fingers, the vibration of its body against his.

“They are still arguing downstairs. If they should risk it.”

Jaskier can hear them through the floor planks. There is no place for him down there, around the table. He has no power, no way to contribute. He is just a problem waiting to happen, an open window for Basia to spy through.

He knows her name now. It doesn’t take the edge off the terror, but it helps him aim the ever running flow of emotions somewhere.

“I don’t want to be her puppet anymore. We should try.”

“It might not work. She might take you again, use you to fight us.”

“So tie me down. I’ve had worse.”

“Jaskier…”

“Don’t Jaskier me, Yennefer. I am a liability like this, and you know it. There is no other way I can come out on the other side, unless we try.”

 

He is angry.

So fucking angry.

There's only one option.

Why won’t they understand? Why can’t they see it? This is the one thing he can do.

Yennefer listens to his words, accepts them for what they are.

“I’m scared. All the time. Ever since they, she, or who the fuck it was, took me, I have been scared. I walk freely, but I am still on her leash. This is my one chance, my one shot, to actually get my freedom, my choice, back, Yennefer.”

Jaskier is panting when he is finished. His fists are so tightly closed, they hurt.

“The only thing that brought me back to who I was, to even just a fraction of myself, was Geralt. And if this is the only thing I can do to help, I will.”

 

“You love him,” Yennefer says quietly. Jaskier says nothing.

He thought he was confident in love. Thought it was something he knew.

“I was there. In the cave where they kept you,” Yennefer says, looking down at her hands. “I touched the slab where they held you.”

Jaskier looks away. He can’t. In his mind, he can see the cracked ceiling. Hear the dripping of water down damp walls. The cold stone against his bare skin. The pain, pain everywhere.
The end.

“I felt it,” she says. “And I see that this is not a decision taken lightly. If you want to do this, I am with you. I can’t promise you anything, can’t promise it will work. But we can try.”

“That’s all I’m asking.”

“I know.”

“Have you told him?”

“I can’t. Not like this.”

“What if you will never get to tell him?”

“Would you want to hear Triss tell you she loves you, and then bury her?”

Yennefer looks up at him surprised. Jaskier gives him a sad smile.

“I‘m a poet. Was a poet. I know these things.”

“You still are. And I don’t know what I would want. I wouldn’t let her go through with it, I think.”

The discussion in the room below is quieter now.

“He loves you too, you know,” Yenenfer says, breaking the quiet that had fallen between them.

Jaskier thinks about all the times Geralt held him close. Held him up. Held him down, when the nightmares became too much.
After all this time, Geralt finally treats him as a friend. What almost happened before, what he thinks almost happened, burns in his memories. He almost ruined it. Again.

“Not the way I want him to,” Jaskier murmurs.

Yennefer opens her mouth to protest, but the door opens and Triss steps inside.

“Philippa agreed to do it. We need two hours to prepare. But I would like you to come down, we need to talk about a few things.”

 

 

 

Geralt can’t sit still. Can’t stand still. He doesn’t know what to do with his hands, so he folds them over his chest, and then unfolds them.

Jaskier and Yennefer come down the stairs with Triss. He looks calm, but Geralt can hear his heart racing. He is listening for it, the entirety of his senses focusing on Jaskier.

Now that Geralt knows what three words he is hiding, holding back, he can’t stop thinking of them. Over and over Geralt thinks them, and he is selfish.

He doesn’t want Jaskier to do this. He doesn’t want to lose him.

I love you.

 


“Please stop, Geralt, you are tiring,” Philippa sighs, massaging her temples. “Your thoughts are so loud. She already knows.”

She? Oh. Philippa seems to think it is about Yennefer. It was, the last time they saw each other.

“What did you want to talk about?” Jaskier asks, staying with Yennefer on the other side of the room. Geralt feels oddly jealous of her, that Jaskier chose to stay by her.

“You know parts of the ceremony already,” Philippa says, still not even looking at him.

Jaskier's hand comes up to his chest, unconsciously scratching at the scar there. Geralt has seen him do it often, and now he finally understands why a little better.

“You will have to kill me. Again.”

Triss's lips flatten into a thin line, and Yennefer too looks oddly uncomfortable. Geralt never thought she cared about his- ...the bard before.

“We will indeed. And not only that. You will have to pick someone to stay behind for the fight with Basia.”

“What?” more than one voice asks.

“Why?” Geralt asks, voice tight.

“Because someone here will have to be bound to him, for the rest of both their lives. It is a risk, and a burden. And before you volunteer, witcher, remember your line of work. If you die, he dies.”

Geralt closes his mouth again. Jaskier watches him with a strange look in his eyes. Soft, but also a little sad.

Philippa looks around the room at the women gathered there.

“Triss? Yennefer? You both stood up for him before,” Philippa watches the two sorceresses curiously, and so does Geralt. Triss and Yennefer also share a look, but it's Yennefer who seems to have made up her mind.

“It’s alright, Triss. I’ll do it. I’m already tainted with necromantic magic.”

“Yenna-” Triss tries to protest, but Yennefer talks over her.

“I’m sorry I never told you. I didn’t want you to look at me differently.” Yennefer says it so quietly, as if the rest of the room isn’t there to hear.

It’s not like her, to be this vulnerable around others.

Geralt doesn’t know what to make of it.

She never was like this when he was hers.

Oh.

Suddenly he sees what none of them are saying.

Yennefer is holding back those three words too. In a way that she never had for him.

Triss reaches for Yennefer's hand and entwines their fingers.

Geralt looks at Jaskier instead. How he watches the two women together, and how sad he looks.

 

Then their eyes meet. The moment extends into forever as they look at each other, and then it shatters.

“So if the ceremony is a success, Yennefer will be the one killing him and then binding him. That also means that Yennefer cannot join us, or the ceremony will have been for naught if she dies.”

True words, but hard ones to swallow.

“Geralt, we might need you to help us hold Jaskier down. Basia will sense what we are doing, and she will fight us.”

Geralt grows cold.

“What can I do?”

“Either, she will take his body and try to use it against us. If so, I will need you to hold him down, keep him quiet. We can’t gag him, or he might choke on his blood as the knife goes through him.”

 

Fuck.
Fuck.

“Or?”

“Or she will unravel her hold on him, and he will be gone before we have the chance to bind him. He must have a connection to this world if this is to work.”

“Then what do I do?”

“Nothing. Nothing but fight him, should he become a wraith.”

 

Chapter 18

Notes:

It is time for some soft. We deserve some soft. They deserve some soft.

Chapter Text

Jaskier feels sick.

As soon as the decision is made, Jaskier steps outside. Out into the evening air, to feel it cool on his sweaty skin, and to throw up in the bushes.

Bile burns his throat on the way up, but his fear burns stronger, tearing down his resolve.

 

His knees are shaking and his eyes sting with unshed tears.

Mortality is such an abstract thing until you stare it in the face. It is always there with you, every now and then rearing its head and singing of loss and grief, and then it is forgotten again.

Jaskier is glad it will be Yennefer. He hates to do this to her, to unwillingly bind her once again to someone, but all the same he is glad. She knows what it means, she felt his pain. At least this time he will not be tortured, and she had a choice in the matter.

With trembling fingers, he wipes his chin with his rumpled handkerchief.

Two hours. Two hours until his scar will be open again. Or will he get a new one? He didn’t think to ask.

A hand touches his back and makes soothing circles between his shoulder blades. Jaskier startled at the touch, he didn’t hear approaching. He twists to see Geralt watching him, concerned.
They just look at each other for a moment, reality hanging heavily between them.

“I’m alright,” Jaskier finally manages and offers a weak smile. Geralt hands him a waterskin and Jaskier accepts it gratefully. “Might have to burn my handkerchief though.”

Geralt reaches for it, and Jaskier hands it over. He grabs it between two fingers and aims his other hand in the sign of igni.

It makes Jaskier smile, but it falls flat when nothing happens.

 

Geralt frowns. He does the sign again, and the handkerchief starts smoking and then finally a tiny flame appears in the bottom corner with the embroidery with Jaskier's initials.

“I think the curse might have affected my signs,” Geralt mutters and lets the burning handkerchief fall to the ground. They watch it for a moment, the smoke stinging their eyes before Geralt stomps it out. If Jaskier felt fear before, it is nothing against what is pulsing through him. Now.

 

“Jaskier.”

He can’t speak.

Life means nothing if Geralt doesn’t come back.

“Jaskier.” Geralt turns towards him and makes Jaskier look at him.

“I’m fine. I’m ok. I’m-.” He pulls in a ragged breath. “Are you?”

Geralt reaches out and catches Jaskier's hand in his. His skin lights up at the touch, and his fingers flex involuntarily in his grip.

“Don’t worry about me. I will be fine. And so will you,” Geralt reassures him.

“But your signs?”

“They won’t help much against real magic anyway.”

“You know what Philippa told me about it when you and Yennefer were upstairs?” Geralt asks, and Jaskier shakes his head. Dread is still curling in the pit of his stomach. Had he not already thrown up, he is sure he would again.

“She thinks that the previous victims of Basia had strong connections to Chaos. So when she performed the ritual, the curse might have passed to them, in a sense, and muddled it up. The flesh golems could be intentional, or they could be connected to her experiments.”

If Geralt meant to soothe him, he is doing a poor job.

His stomach feels like it is about to empty itself again, so he backs up, but Geralt holds his hand tight.

“Sorry, sorry. I meant to say, this might be to my advantage. Maybe she hopes to use the chaos against me? And if so, I will be better protected. I have my swords anyway, and my potions.”

Jaskier looks at Geralt skeptically, but the hand around his, Geralt's hand, holds him together. Soothes him, despite his worry.

“Just….If I make it through this-”

“-You will,” Geralt insists sternly, stepping closer again. Jaskier gives a sad smile.

“Alright, after the ceremony, after Basia, please come back to me.”

 

Jaskier regrets it the instant he says it when Geralt's smile falters.
Shit. Fuck.

He messed everything up now, didn’t he.

 

“I mean, uh, you are the only thing I’m living for anyway so ah-” Shit, fuck, damnit, Jaskier shut up, fuck, shit. “I’ll just stop talking now.”

Jaskier pulls backwards again, trying to get his hand out of Geralt's grip, looking away, but Geralt takes a step closer.

 

All of Jaskier's nerves are on fire, his heart is jackrabbiting but everything comes to a halt when Geralt grips his fingers tighter and puts a hand on his neck.

Eyes as intense as the sun search his face, an emotion crossing them that Jaskier doesn’t let himself read.

Geralt's hand moves from his neck to his jaw, and everything in Jaskier screams. He wants to lean in, he wants to kiss him, he wants to flee, run away, take his words back, he wants Geralt to never let him go.

“Jaskier-”

“Don’t,” Jaskier whispers, closing his eyes as fear and pain and longing rush through him. Despite himself, his free hand latches on to Geralt's wrist, and he leans into the touch.

“Don’t say anything, please.”

There is a heavy silence.

“Alright,” Geralt says after a moment, his thumb stroking over Jaskier's cheekbone. Jaskier opens his eyes to look at him, and draws in a breath. Geralt’s smile is like hope in the darkness. Stupid, useless hope.

“No words,” Geralt agrees, and then Geralt's lips are on his.

A chaste, gentle press of lips, and Jaskier…. It doesn’t feel real. Geralt's lips are dry, infinitely soft, and before he can respond at all, Geralt pulls back and presses their foreheads together.

How is he ever supposed to let Geralt go?

 

 

 

Yennefer watches Geralt when Jaskier leaves the house. Watches him stare after the bard, and then finally give in and go after him.

She watches through an upstairs window and sees how Geralt is pulling Jaskier close, and then closer still. Yenenfer wraps her arms around herself, feeling a cold loneliness wrap around her.

If she fucks this up, Jaskier will die. He might still die, and she will be powerless to do anything against that.

She wonders if Geralt would ever forgive her. She wonders if she could ever forgive herself.

 

A hand touches her waist and she turns to see Triss' brown eyes looking down at her.

“Someone is thinking very loudly,” Triss teases, letting her stay hand where it is. Yennefer will feel the imprint of that hand on her for a very long time.

“There is just a lot on my mind,” Yennefer admits, stepping away from the window and sitting down on the couch by the wall. Triss sits down next to her and knocks their knees together.

“I would be worried if it wasn’t,” she says, and pulls an unruly curl behind her ear. “But I think you are right. This is the best way. If we don’t do this, Basia could keep holding Jaskier against us. I wonder if she knows just how good of a pawn she chose.”

“Probably. If she was friends with Philippa, they should be similar enough to use people as they please,” Yennefer scoffs.

“Sabrina is collecting the blade,” Triss says. “When she comes back we should be able to start."

Collecting the blade.

“The same one?” Yennefer asks.

“Don’t think she left that behind. But she has located a similar one, she should be back soon.”

“And then I will bind Jaskier to me…”

They sit in silence for a moment. Yennefer feels tense, uncomfortable in her own skin. She never stabbed a willing person before. She hasn't done much stabbing in general actually, that is usually where Geralt comes into the picture.

“Have you memorized the incantation?” Triss asks carefully.

“I have. I wonder if Philippa ever would try to do this herself, if this is successful.”

“I don’t think she needs it anymore. And besides, there are only that many fingers you can tie someone to,” Triss says, and Yennefer looks down at her own hands.

She will have to make a ring from the strands of Jaskier's hair. Thinking back, she remembers Basia's finger twitching. Is that how it will be? She wonders how strong of a bond they will have. If Jaskier would be her puppet.

Not that she would do that to him, but…

 

“Alright, snap out of it, Yenna,” Triss says, grabbing Yennefer's shoulders and turning them towards herself. “I know that look, and it’s not good.”

Yennefer smiles, and realizes there is something she needs to say.

“Thank you.” she says, and something inside her flutters when Triss smiles back at her. “For being here. For staying. For not looking at me differently.”

Triss squeezes her shoulders before she lets go, once again putting an unruly curl back in its place. Oh how Yennefer longs to do that herself.

“I know you have your secrets, Yen. We all do, and some of them are darker than others. My respect for you wouldn’t dwindle for something like this. Or whatever happened in your past.”

There is lightning under her skin.

A nervous energy roars through her body, leaking out into the air between them. Yennefer wants to reach out, hold that gentle hand in hers, tuck that curl behind her ear.

But maybe Jaskier is right.

Whatever this is that they have, it will still be there when all this is over.
If they get to see the end together.

“We should prepare,” she says.

 

 

Chapter 19

Notes:

Evil doing time!

I know we are 19 chapters in and by now you know this story is a bit violent, but a reminder! Be kind to yourself, be safe, and I love you!
Oh, and the biggest, warmest, most thankful thanks to my darling beta @Kuripaaan, this chapter was a bit tricky, and I don't know what I ever did to deserve you in my life.

(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)

Chapter Text

They don’t have a stone slab this time. They are not even in a cave. There is no cracked stone ceiling, no dripping walls. No torture, no pain.
Not yet.

But there are ropes around Jaskier's wrist, binding them tightly together and fixing them above his head. The stars are looking down on him, as is the infinite black night sky.
Torches are lit in a circle in the glade they arrived in not even a day ago. Yennefer stands at his bound feet, a cloak hanging over her shoulders. Every inch of her skin is painted with intricate patterns, all the way out to her fingertips.


Jaskier could be imagining it, but her purple eyes look as if they are glowing in the darkness. Triss and Philippa stand behind her, one with a bowl of what he suspects is blood, the other with a small leatherbound book.

 

Geralt stands in the shadows, geared up in his witcher armor. Silver is for monsters, Jaskier thinks, studying the blades on Geralt's back.
It had been weird watching Geralt put his armor on. Preparing his potions. Oiling his blade. Knowing it’s for him. Layer after layer of armor thickened the tense silence between them.
Geralt had kissed him.

And now he is preparing to fight him, if things take a turn for the worse.

It was also Geralt tying his wrists. There is no one that Jaskier would trust with this but him. The ringing is back in his ears, and skin is cold and clammy with sweat.
Sabrina holds the dagger, he knows, standing somewhere out of sight, just above Jaskier's head.

His chest is bare, the one scar from his time with Basia visible for all to see. The final piece of proof.

Fear courses through him, but it is mixed with a sort of anticipation.
They have laid him out on the wooden table they dined on not hours prior. He wonders if they will carry it inside again and place a salad bowl strategically to hide the blood stain.

 

“Are we ready?” Sabrina asks, and Yennefer startles.

With him laid out like this, she feels Jaskier's memories run through her. Not only the leaked ones she saw in the cave, but the ones pouring from him now. She can’t afford to shield herself from him, not now, when everything hangs on their connection.

“I’m ready,” Yennefer confirms. “Do I take hair now, or when…?”

“You take hair when he is dead. We don’t have much time to bind his soul, so you have to work quickly,” Philippa says.

She leaves ‘or he might turn into a wraith’ unsaid, but everybody hears it anyway.

“Then I will start now,” Yennefer says. “Triss?”

 

 

Jaskier doesn’t remember much from last time. To be fair, there had been so much pain, his body twisted and broken. He remembers some things, though vaguely. Her hair brushing across his face, the manacles cutting deep into his bruised skin.

Now he feels Yennefer's warm fingers against his foot. She uses whatever they mixed into that bowl to draw patterns on his limbs as well.
She begins chanting, her voice calm and clear with words so old they grate his bones.

Her fingers trace upwards, and where her fingers touch, he feels cold. He can’t move his feet when she is past his knees.

A numbness, thick like a blanket.

Panic, wild and overpowering, takes over his senses, the tugging of his heart pulling her closer, until all he sees is black.

And then nothing.

 

 

As Yennefer's hand climbs up Jaskier's body, she can see the life drain away from him. Inch by inch, she snaps each string that ties him to the necromancer.
She also notices when Basia comes, climbing the remaining threads connecting her to Jaskier like a spider. Jaskier is once again turned into a puppet, she feels him being tugged away and Basia taking control of his body.

Basia shrieks with Jaskier's voice, broken and horrible, twisting his hips as she tries to get away from Yennefer.

“WHAT ARE YOU DOING?!” she yells, tugging harshly at the restraints, the parts of Jaskier's body still under her control twisting and writhing. “ARE YOU TRYING TO KILL HIM?!”

Yes.

Yennefer doesn’t give Basia any attention, just keeps chanting, snapping thread after thread, Jaskier's limbs falling limp and cold as she inscribes the runes on them. From the corner of her eye she sees Geralt, all tensed up and hands flexing helplessly at his sides.

Her heart thuds heavily as she dips her finger in the bowl Triss holds for her, reapplying the mixture, and draws another rune on Jaskier's body.
Basia laughs, Jaskier's voice hollow and manic.

“He will die. The moment you loosen my grip on his heart, he is gone. Can you live with that, witchling? Can you live with his blood on your hands?”

Spittle flies as Jaskier's mouth forms her words, gathering at the corner of his mouth. Anger boils in Yennefer's chest, and she has to stop her hand from shaking as she draws.
Jaskier's hips fall limp, and Basia swears loudly.

“It’s fine. I got what I needed from the bard anyway. You should have heard his pleas, his screams for his witcher.”
Basia laughs again and Geralt growls somewhere behind Yennefer.

“Calm yourself,” Sabrina hisses to him quietly.

“Speaking of witchers,” Basia says conversationally, as if Yennefer now isn’t dipping another finger into the bowl to start working on his arms.

“Geralt of Rivia. You are here, right? You are always here when the little bard is in pain. Oh how he cried for you. Have you counted your brothers lately? I think I will have to get myself a new puppet tonight, seeing as you are taking this one.”

Fuck.
FUCK.

Sabrina steps up, close to Yennefer as she makes the last symbols over Jaskier's torso.

Basia is laughing again, and she grabs the blade with one hand as she draws the circle around Jaskier's scar with the other.

With the last line drawn, she raises the knife above her head with both hands. The blood from the bowl drips down her fingers and into her sleeve,

She can see the moment Basia's hold unravels, and for a split second she can see Jaskier return and stare back up at her. She can see the moment his heart stops beating, his eyes fixed on hers.

 

And then she plunges the knife into his chest.

 

 

 

 

Geralt watches transfixed as Yennefer paints the runes, chanting over the broken sound of Jaskier's hoarse laughter. The vibrations in his medallion slowly fade as another piece of Jaskier's body is released.

“Speaking of witchers,.” Basia says, turning Jaskier's head to look at him. His eyes are wrong. Grey, unseeing, his skin too pale.

“Geralt of Rivia. You are here, right? You are always here when the little bard is in pain. Oh how he cried for you.”

He wants to fight her right now. He wants the satisfying feeling of the sword slicing through her body, the sound of her head falling to the floor. He wants to feel her hot blood spill over his hands, hear the last wheezing of her lungs when she can draw a breath no more.

“Have you counted your brothers lately? I think I will have to get myself a new puppet tonight, seeing as you are taking this one.”

 

Cold, icy fingers trickle along his spine. Horror lances through his body.
Who?

Every cell in his body is screaming at him, to move, to fight, to find and protect his brothers. But he must remain here for a while longer.

He shoots a glance at Triss, and she looks just as taken aback. Not even Philippa can hide her surprise, despite her normally cold demeanor.

Sabrina leaves his side to join Yenenfer at the top of the table. The blade doesn’t give a reflection, no light catching on the metal.

Geralt is torn. He wants to stop her, wants Jaskier to stand up and fall into his arms.
But he can’t.

There is very little he can do, as her knife pierces his body with a sickening sound. Yennefer's eyes are wide, glowing in the dim darkness, and curiously enough very little blood drips from the wound.
Her hands are barely shaking when she accepts a smaller knife from Sabrina, cutting some hair from Jaskier's head.

 

His eyes stare up into the nothingness, and everything inside Geralt hurts. He can’t watch Yennefer tie the strands around her pinky, can’t listen to her loud, clear voice as she keeps chanting, bright purple magic pouring from her and into the knife.

It casts sharp shadows on Jaskier's features, making his cheeks look hollow and waxy.
The moment of truth.

Geralt isn’t sure he could fight Jaskier, should he transform. Isn’t sure he could raise his sword or try his signs. Not that his signs are of much use now anyway, but he is not sure he can, no matter what he promised Jaskier.

 

There is an emptiness inside his chest, and it only grows stronger as the seconds tick by.

Yennefer reaches her hands into the sky, yelling the last words into the darkness. The purple light becomes stronger, and Geralt's medallion vibrates violently.
Then, as soon as it starts, the vibration stops.

Slowly she lowers her hands, her face still tilted up towards the stars. And then she looks down at Jaskier, breathing deeply.
Her hand looks so small wrapped around the knife handle as she pulls it out of his body.

The last remnants of purple linger on the tip of the knife as she cuts her own palm with it. Red blood wells up from the cut, filling up her cupped palm quickly. She lets it drip down her wrist, mingling with the blood used to draw the runes.
Then she pours her blood over Jaskier's cheeks, closed eyes, and lastly dripping it into his open mouth.

She holds the hand over him, and Geralt feels something build and build and build in the air. Everything is quiet, so quiet. Geralt's entire focus is on Jaskier, waiting for any twitch, any sign of life.

“Rise,” Yennefer commands, and Geralt notices her tied pinky twitching.

It is so quiet that he almost misses it.
The first beat of Jaskier's heart. The first tug of Yennefer's magic.

 

 

Jaskier tries to rise, but his bonds stop him. His eyes are still unseeing, his lips still pale, a stark contrast of Yennefer's blood down his face.

But again, there is a gentle tug of something inside Jaskier's chest.
Then he draws in a rattling breath, mouth wide as a drowning man. Jaskier blinks once, twice.

“I can feel him,” Yennefer whispers. “I control his blood, his muscles, his mind. He is mine.”

 

Geralt would feel relief, if Yennefer didn’t look so troubled.

“I don’t know how to let him go,” she says, voice tight.

“Give it a moment,” Philippa says calmly. “First step is to have his body. To make it suitable for life again. When it is ready, he will return, but until then he should remain bound.”

 

It feels like an age before Jaskier bears any resemblance to himself again. For every blink, his eyes get a little clearer. For every breath and tug, his cheeks regain color. Yennefer keeps her bleeding hand outstretched, eyes closed in concentration.

There is no change in the air, no visible change happening when Jaskier squeezes his eyes closed, his nose scrunched up.
When they open again, Jaskier is back.

Yennefer lets her hand fall to her side, body finally relaxing, and takes a staggering step backwards.
Jaskier looks around a bit confused, and then his eyes lock onto Geralt.

“Eskel. She has Eskel. And I know where she is.”

 

Notes:

*evil author noises*

Chapter 20

Notes:

Yes hello lovelies, it's been ages!
Here is a little update for you all, before the big battle! I couldn't resist describing how it would feel, and the calm before the storm. Sort of.
Please enjoy <3

Chapter Text

It's a strange feeling, pulling Jaskier out of the darkness. Yennefer is not new to necromancy, not at all, but this is something else. Plunging the knife into him, feeling the blade scrape against bone, his eyes on her as they dim, as he fades away between one heartbeat and the next. Cutting her own hand, the sting when her skin parts and blood starts flowing freely, filling her cupped palm.

The physical sensation of feeling her own blood drip on lips that are not hers.

She felt it somehow, she felt it as if it were her laying there. Cold and stiff, the blood hot on her dry lips.

This is not a place anyone can live, she realizes. The ring of hair burns like a brand around her finger, and she tugs. Tugs Jaskier back into his body, tugs his heart into motion.

All it takes is a twitch of her finger. A twitch of the thread that binds them.
Her magic, binding him to her.

She makes him blink. Once. Twice.

She can sense Jaskier at the edge of her consciousness, floating.

With her magic, she makes him draw in a breath. She can feel the air come into his lungs, expanding his chest. She can feel his blood start to move, sense muscles that aren’t her own.
The first brush of Jaskier’s mind against hers. It is like pushing your fingers through mist, his thoughts parting for her, giving way to her will. Yennefer sees herself as the knife was thrusted into his body. She pushes it away, looking for something more pleasant.

“I can feel him,” she whispers. “I control his blood, his muscles, his mind. He is mine.”

Jaskier obeys her every command. Breathe in. Out. As his mind tangles with her, flashes of thoughts she can’t catch before they flee from her mind. An unfamiliar tower. Familiar amber but still a stranger's eyes.

Knives, chains, hot coal and pliers, lined up and waiting.
Breathe in. Out.

Why isn’t he breathing on his own? Why isn’t Jaskier waking up?

 

“I don’t know how to let him go,” she says, voice tight.

“Give it a moment,” Philippa says calmly. “First step is to have his body. To make it suitable for life again. When it is ready, he will return, but until then he should remain bound.”

 

Her bleeding hand still drips on Jaskier's lips. But his cheeks have regained his colour, just a little. She closes her eyes and focuses on the sensation of Jaskier's beating heart.
She tugs him closer and closer and closer, making sure he is filling his entire body before taking a step back.

Lutes, feathered hats, Geralt's warmth at his back. Sunshine, Wilk, rain they ran from in the middle of the night.
Jaskier's memories flash inside her mind as she tries to give him his body back.

 

Only until she feels something physically snap, becomes freed from whatever tried to hold him that she can let go.
Basia, most likely. Another memory flashes through them both and suddenly she knows. Not only where, but who.

She's only met him a few times, but those scars are not something you would easily forget. Putting the pieces together is not hard.
Somehow, Basia has Eskel. She must mean to make a puppet out of him. But if she hasn’t figured out the connection to her curse and her victims' connection to chaos, all she is going to get is another body. Possibly another golem.

And then, all of a sudden, Jaskier is back.
The only thing she feels from him is the thud of his heart through the twitch of her finger.
She lowers her hand as Jaskier opens his eyes and takes stock.

Then Jaskier says what they both saw.

“Eskel. She has Eskel. And I know where she is.”

 

 

Yennefer couldn’t have followed them even if she tried. She allows Triss inside her mind to get Basia's location, and then Philippa has a portal open, and Jaskier and Yennefer are alone in the clearing.
Jaskier sinks back to the table he was laying on, closing his eyes and licking his lips. Then he makes a face and turns to the side to spit.

“I’m so tired of the taste of blood,” he mutters.

“At least it’s not your own this time,” she says, leaning against the end of the table, exhausted.

“Not helpful,” Jaskier complains, rolling to his back again and glaring up at her. She smiles and shoves at his shoulder.

“Move over.”

Jaskier frowns but scoots to the side, and she lies down so they are positioned head-to-toe.

“I never want to die again.”

“Twice was too much?”

“Obviously.”

Yennefer snorts, and then there is no stopping the broken laughter. Jaskier joins in after a moment, breathy and aching.

They laugh until there are tears in their eyes and a stitch in their sides.

Their breaths and the night sounds of a forest is all that is heard for a while, as they tamp down the emotions threatening to overtake them both.

“I can feel you,” Yennefer says softly. “I can feel your heart beating.”

“I don’t think that is supposed to be as comforting as it is,” Jaskier replies, and they both chuckle again.

“I am so scared,” he says after a while, and Yennefer turns her eyes from the night sky to look at him. “What if he won’t come back? What if none of them come back?”

Yennefer has no reply to this.
She lifts her cut hand above her, studying the wound. It is closing already, the blood clotting up and flaking. It stings a little when she moves it around, but it will be fine come morning.

“What if I sent them to their deaths?” Jaskier whispers, and Yennefer clenches her fist.

Jaskier is voicing her own fears, but she can’t afford to think like that.

“Whatever happens is because of her. She did this and she needs to be stopped.”

“I just wish I could help. Not be a burden.”

“You are not a burden. I think you might even be the reason many will live, Jaskier.” Yennefer sighs and rests her hand over her heart.

Meletile knows, she wished she could keep Triss safe from it all.

“We need to rest,” Yennefer decides. “And we need to prepare for when they come back.”

Yennefer hopes they will come back. All of them.

Chapter 21

Notes:

I'm back darlings!!

Long time no see! I literally had to search for my own fic to find and update it haha. My hug prompt month came between us there for a while. Also writers block. And moving to a new apartment. And a trip to London... busy times!
Anyway, here be new chapter! Writing is hard, writing fighting scenes even harder! Please enjoy this smol offering as i work on the next part! <3
Oh and Thank you bestest @Kuripaaan, who is the very bestest (and also writes very well!) who keeps saving my butt by being a wonderful Beta and an even better friend <3 love you!

Chapter Text

The portal opens and Geralt follows the others through it.

The moment he sets his foot on solid ground, he knows they have been waiting for them. He has just enough time to throw up a protection sign before an arrow bounces against it.

It smells of rot and decay, the ground covered in treacherous vines and slippery grass. Next to him, the sorceresses throw up protection of their own and the battle begins. They are assaulted with chaos, making his medallion hum and vibrate angrily.

Geralt tries to focus in the havoc, looking around for ways to move forward. As much as he hates to leave Jaskier behind in that state, he has to. The family Geralt knows is small, but it is his and he’ll be damned before he lets a crazed sorceress take it from him.

He should have taken a potion before he went through the portal, but not knowing what he would be up against, there was too high of a chance that he could down the completely wrong tonic and be useless anyway.

With his signs weakend, Geralt has to rely on his other skill sets.

It’s loud, in the way that battlefields are. Another wave of arrows rains down from the sky, just as Geralt feels his Quen flicker out of existence. Shit.

Hastily he looks around for cover, only to find himself in the middle of a run down courtyard. With no time to hide, he tries Quen again, but nothing comes. Bracing himself, hand tightening around the grip of his sword, he widens his stance and prepares to deflect the arrows best he can.
He blocks one with his blade, two. The third whizzes past his shoulder, missing only because his foot slipped on the grass, wet with the late hour's dew.

“I’ll take care of the bowmen,” Sabrina says angrily, the torches along the wall flickering as they respond to her rage. She makes complicated twists with her hands, grunting as the flames grow higher, reaching for the night sky.

Fire is the hardest element to control, Yennefer told him once. How it always is greedy for more, ready to consume you.

Geralt wastes no time, running forward into an archway to hide from the next volley of arrows, if Sabrina couldn’t stop them in time. Someone grunts in pain above him, but Geralt pays no mind. He takes a deep breath and closes his eyes, breathing out. Focus.

Eskel. Where is Eskel?

He catches footsteps running in the hallway, the sharp scent of their sweat, their fear. The heat from the growing, ever raging fire against his right cheek.

There.

It’s weak, but there is a trace of Eskel’s scent. Probably days old. His heartbeat picks up, adrenaline spikes, itching to move. A door bursts open, a group of soldiers spills out on the yard. Two with sword and shield, two with long spears.

“Geralt!” Triss yells, her skin glowing in the fire light, sweat already gathering on her forehead.

Curiously enough, Philippa stands with her palms up, calmly breathing in the calamity around her. Triss blasts one of the spear men out of the way as they attempt to surround the sorceresses. Geralt takes the cue, ducking out of the arch and jumping nimbly out of the way as one of the swordsmen notice him.

“There is something dampening our magic!” Triss yells again as the spearman regains his footing and approaches her again. She aims another blast towards him, but this time the man is ready. He leans into it, turning his shoulder as if to push his way through it.

It would probably have worked, had not Geralt shoved into him, knocking the spear out of his hands, aiming an elbow at his jaw. The soldier staggers, and Geralt swipes his feet from underneath him, sending him to the ground with a loud thud. The swordsman Geralt passed turns toward him, sword slicing through the air towards Geralt’s wide open side.

Gods, he feels vulnerable without his signs, but it’s nothing he hasn’t done before. He steps out of reach and counterattacks, aiming at the exposed elbow. He connects, slicing through the leather and muscle, straight to the bone. The man's sword falls down to the grass, his blood almost black in the semi darkness. Geralt feels it seeping in through the gap between his glove and his sleeve, hot on his skin. The man screams, but Geralt ignores him, whirling around to meet the next blade. More men run into the yard, more stomping feet and glistening steel.

Geralt’s medallion still vibrates against his chest, the air so thick it almost crackles. Sabrina swears as one of the torches explode and fades into darkness, embers and ashes falling down from the skies like broken snow.

He hears Philippa chanting, her voice low and monotonous, her hands clapping together. The words make no sense to him, but the medallion vibrates stronger and his ears pop. Triss steps up behind him, covering his back as another spearman attempts to jab at his unguarded back. She grabs the spear, twists around and then stomps it down, pushing it down and out of the soldiers grip. He backs up, drawing his dagger instead, a long, curved thing.

Geralt parries an arrow that escapes Sabrina’s notice, the fire's heat once again flaring hot on his skin. The grip on his sword is slippery, and when he buries it in the shoulder of a man wielding a morning star, he loses his grip on it. Quickly he grabs one of the fallen soldier's swords, its height unfamiliar but well balanced, a bit shorter than he is used to. No time as again he steps out of reach from a blade. The next swipe he blocks, the impact is hard enough to feel in his bones.

Philippa's voice gets louder, again she claps her hands, and for one second there is pure silence, total darkness, complete blackness.

All movement is caught mid air, breath caught in lungs.

And then it all comes rushing back with a violence as inevitable as a beat of a heart.

Triss cackles in delight, the grass and vines beneath Geralt’s feet moving as her magic floods back in full force.

“Go!” Sabrina yells, her fire now smooth in her hands. “We got this.”

 

Geralt runs without looking back.

Chapter 22

Notes:

Update? Update!!

Hello lovelies! So sorry for the long wait! I may or may not have written myself into a corner so it took me some time to figure things out! Bur here is the next chapter, I hope you won't be too mad at me <3
Enjoy!

Chapter Text

The sounds of the battle outside are quieter inside the stone walls. It’s cold, the stench of decay and rot stronger, but the mayhem outside feels far away. None of that is important; all he knows is the weight of the unfamiliar sword in his hand and the faint traces of Eskel he can smell in the air. It is muddled, as so many people must walk these walls daily, but Geralt is determined.
He makes a left turn and finds himself in an empty room lined with worn wooden tables. In the far corner is a fireplace, and by it stands a man in a stained apron, startled by his sudden appearance.

“Where is she?” Geralt growls, desperation growing in his gut.

“Who?” the man squeaks out.

“Basia. The witch.”

“There are no ladies here, sir. Please don’t hurt me, m’lord. I’m only a cook, please.”

Geralt almost snarls at him, but he turns quickly and slams the door closed behind him. Pathetic. He bursts through two more doors, finding nothing, when he smells something familiar.

Terrible, dark and twisted, but familiar.
A drawn out groan echoes through the walls, distorting the sound, making it hard to place.
Somewhere behind him, there is another flesh golem.
Of course there fucking is.
Fuck, fuck, he barely lived last time, what the fuck can he do?

The rancid stench of the golem masks all other scents, making it impossible to decide where to go. Up or down? A bit further down the corridor ahead of him is a staircase leading down, and he passed one going up during his frantic search.
The golem makes the decision for him. Slowly, it pushes itself up the staircase, black gore staining the walls and the ground in its wake. Too many arms pull it through the doorway, broken fingernails scraping against the stone as it strains.
It blocks the corridor, wheezing and groaning as it looks around. Geralt stands frozen with indecision. What if Eskel is down there? What if he is too late, what if that is Eskel?
No, he can’t think like that.
If he is going to be any help at all right now, he needs to move- he does not have time to fight the golem. It seems like the golem is having a hard time spotting him, it's attention drawn towards the windows, towards the fight going on outside.
Drawn towards the chaos, he realizes.

Mindful of his steps, Geralt walks backwards, until he feels he has enough distance between them to make a run for it. There are no doors to close between them this time, no mages to freeze it. He needs to get up to the tower without being noticed, or he will have no way down after. He might not anyway, but that is a problem for later.

As soon as he is in the staircase, hidden from view, he dashes up the steps, taking them two at the time. The groaning stays behind him, and there is silence above him.
He soon finds another floor, another corridor with doors and arches. Some are open, revealing bookshelves and sitting rooms. Up here, the air is cleaner, more breathable. No signs of fighting, not even of living, but there rarely are in lonely keeps like this. Geralt doubts Basia keeps much company.
The closed doors give nothing until he finds another staircase. It’s narrow and tight, clearly not meant for grand usage. Servants and secrets must pass through here.
No time to think. Geralt climbs the stairs, almost crouching to keep his head from hitting the ceiling. His breathing grows heavy, his thighs burning with strain as he climbs, higher and higher, until a small wooden door blocks his path.
There is a loud roar from somewhere below, and a crash. Geralt peers at the door, praying to everything holy it isn’t locked. Quickly inspecting it for trap runes, he presses his ear to the wood, trying to hear what is going on inside.
A muffled voice is talking in there. He can’t make out the words, but his medallion is vibrating against his chest, so he grips it. For quiet or for luck, it doesn’t matter. Slowly he opens the door, and when the chanting doesn't stop, he steps inside with three quick steps.

The scene inside is an echo of what he found underground all those months ago. Half a laboratory is perched among the scattered tables, benches and shelves. Crystals, ashes, books and grotesque, foul smelling substances in bottles and bowls. The air tastes stale, thick with blood and sweat and wrong. The floor is stained brown, red and black, burn marks and filth littering the floor, walls and ceiling.
In the middle of the room on yet another stone slab is Eskel.

His wrists and ankles are tethered with shackles, keeping his limbs stretched and his chest and abdomen exposed. Dimeritium, Geralt can see from the angry marks on Eskel’s skin.
He is bruised, cut scattered on his body, his eyes swollen shut, and there seems to be something wrong with his left hand.

By the window, a man stands chanting, his back turned and his hands raised towards the sky.
The apprentice, Geralt presumes. The young mage then throws a hand out towards Geralt, and an invisible force slams him back into the wall behind him.
He grunts as his head bounces against the stone, black spots dancing in his vision.

“There you are,” a woman’s voice drawls. Another blast of magic makes him lose his grip on the sword and it clatters to the floor. “For a moment there, I thought you wouldn’t come.”

Basia steps out from behind a veil of shadows, her smile revealing perfect bright teeth, a finger tapping at her chin as if in thought.
She is sickly pale, skin stretched thin over her bony frame, three freckles in a small triangle below her left eye. Once she would have been beautiful. Still is, in a morbid sort of way.

“Mikolaj, would you make our guest comfortable?”

The apprentice ceases his chanting, but keeps his hand raised as he picks up a pair of shackles, no doubt made of dimiterium. Geralt can’t move, can barely breathe. The pressure against his chest would have crushed a normal human’s ribs.

“Ger'lllt.” Eskel slurs from the table. “Run.”

But he can’t, and Mikolaj fastens the shackles around his wrists.

Chapter 23

Notes:

Fighting scenes are hard.
Please enjoy!

Chapter Text

Of all the things to be grateful for, Geralt never expected it to be his signs to be blocked. He’d worn dimiterium before on occasion, when a mage or royalty got struck with inspiration. At those times, the pain had been terrible, the metal almost burning him, the way his skin felt too small, too tight.

This time it is different. This time, he is already empty. There is nothing to block.
The shackles are still uncomfortable, still blocking his movements, still quieting his medallion, but Geralt is blissfully unaffected.

 

Another loud crash echoes below in the courtyard, and Basia’s dark eyes turn towards the window.

“Mikolaj. Let me borrow your body.”

The apprentice's body stiffens, his eyes glazing over.

“That’s it. Let me in,” she croons, smiling as she steps into his space, tapping her finger to his temple. “See me.”

Mikolaj straightens, his mouth a firm line.

“I see you,” he says, opening a door Geralt hadn’t seen, and reveals the sky. He steps out onto a balcony, and then into thin air. Then he is gone.

 

Geralt expects to hear a sickening crunch as the apprentice's body connects with the ground, but there is nothing. Nothing, until Basia stares into nothing, her eyes his eyes, her hands moving as if she is controlling a puppet. Maybe she is, it would make sense.

“Philippa,” Basia says, tilting her head. “Welcome. Do you like what I made of myself?”

It is rather strange listening to a very one sided conversation.

“Why, I won’t let a little curse stop me. Mindmelding only takes an open, willing mind. But you know all about that, don’t you, Philippa?”

There is a trick to getting out of shackles, but he’d rather not dislocate his thumb if he needs to grip his sword. Which is pretty much the only option left to him at this point.

Geralt looks around the room again, looking for something, anything, to free himself with. His sword is just out of reach. He might be able to touch it with his foot, but the likelihood of Basia letting him pick it up is very low. She has a variety of knives stashed close to the slab, and Geralt is confident she knows how to use each and every one of them.

“No,” Basia says, tilting her head and smiling her prettiest smile. “They are mine now. You might find Mikolaj is quite the handful, ladies.”

Whatever Geralt decides to do, it has to happen now. Desperately, he looks around the room, his eyes catching on the still open balcony door.
Small mercies that he is not shackled to the wall and his legs are free. There is one thing he could try.

Basia cocks her head to the side again, her fingers twitching in the air as she does her puppeteering. As she opens her mouth to speak, Geralt stands up.

His legs are a little shaky from the impact, but he can keep his balance. Jaw clenched, Geralt moves.

Basia’s eyes meet his, her connection with Mikolaj snapping, and she reaches for the knives beside her. Geralt uses the shackles to block her, but she twists and he only hits her elbow. It is hard to move around in such a small space, but she manages to step around him enough to get a hold of one of her knives. Fuck.

She aims a slash towards his ribs, and he lifts his arms to catch her wrist against his side. This close, he can feel the heat of her breath against his skin.

Geralt decides that is close enough, and headbutts her. The angle is slightly off, but his forehead connects solidly with her brow. It hurts like hell, but it works, and she staggers back.
Towards the balcony.

Without letting up, Geralt forces her backwards using his elbows, knees, and fists to rain blows down upon her. Basia thrusts her knife at him, scraping against his armor and against his arm, but not doing much damage. Step after step, he manages to get her to back up.
Sorceresses are not trained in physical battle like this, but if he gives her even an inch, if he allows her one good hit with that knife, things might change to her advantage.

The fresh air hits him, the wind strong up here. It catches in their hair, making it hard to see, but it doesn’t matter. The edge is right there. Geralt doesn’t know if she has caught on to his plan yet, but he dodges down, feints, and sweeps her feet from underneath her.

 

When she falls, she doesn’t scream.
As soon as she is out of sight, Geralt runs back inside. He has no doubt she will be back for him, and before she returns, he has to get Eskel out of these shackles.

There are no keys in sight, but there are other tools. Pokers and needles and an array of other incredibly menacing objects, clearly meant for inflicting pain.

They don’t speak; Geralt is not even entirely certain Eskel is conscious. His eyelids are fluttering, his breath more ragged than he likes it.
None of the things on the benches seem to help, and for a panicked moment, Geralt fears they are trapped. Only when he is about to give up does he see the small hammer on the floor.

He might not be able to open the shackles, but maybe he can break of the chains.

 

Geralt grasps one of the knives, now scattered across the floor. He choses one that looks like they would be just a little too big for the chain links, and gets to work.
It is noisy, and very fucking hard to hold the knife and use the hammer at the same time. Eskel is groaning, making small movements as the metal digs into his already raw skin.

“Almost through,” Geralt says through clenched teeth. Little sparks shoot from the link where he is hammering the knife through, the blade of the knife making the loop bend ever so lightly.

With a soft ping, it breaks.

Geralt yanks at the chain, forcing Eskel’s arm free. Immediately, Geralt starts to work on the other one. As he does, Eskel gingerly pulls his now free arm towards his chest. He heaves a sigh, flexing his fingers, and then he reaches up to hold the knife for Geralt so he can hit it better with the hammer.

It takes less time to go through this one, and when Eskel is free, he sits up. His left hand looks wrong, but now is not the time. They have to switch knives when they work on Eskel’s ankles as the other has dented and bent after the abuse. His brother is quiet, cradling his broken hand close to his bare chest, helping Geralt free him best he can.

Freeing Geralt is a project on its own. This time, Geralt can’t help with either task, and Eskel grits his teeth as his injured hand has to hold the knife steady, every impact making him grimace.

As soon as the chains are broken, Geralt helps Eskel stand.
Neither of them are especially steady on their feet, but they make it out the door without incident. The stairs prove to be a challenge, Eskel’s ribs too bruised for Geralt to properly support him. They take many breaks, praying to everything that no one stumbles upon them. Like this, they would be like mice in a trap.

But they make it down, and Geralt leaves Eskel against a wall for a second to find him something to drink or something to open the shackles with. He finds a waterskin, but falls short on anything useful for lock picking.
It’s alright. If they can make it to any of the witches, they should be fine. They just need to keep moving.

Pure luck has Geralt looking out a window when he does. Mikolaj is somehow keeping Basia hovering in the air, her smile wide and manic.

“Geeeeeraaalt,” she calls, as if she is calling a child in for dinner. “That wasn’t very nice of you. I could have broken something.”

By the looks of it, she already has. Mikolaj is looking terrible, his skin slowly turning grey. The flesh golem is being held off by Sabrina, Geralt's strategy of using ice against the golems serving her well in keeping it at bay.
But something is wrong with Mikolaj.

He groans loudly, a sickening snap ringing through the courtyard, audible despite all the noise of the fighting, and then everything goes quiet.

“What happened?” Eskel croaks, when he notices.

Geralt stands by the window, his eyes trained on the courtyard below.
“Something is wrong with the apprentice.” Geralt says quietly, unwilling to break the unnatural quiet. There is something very bad going on down there.

He can’t see the sorceresses, but he can see the guards make a hasty retreat. Basia is somehow still hovering in the air, her skirts billowing around her pale ankles. Mikolaj is bent in an odd angle, his eyes blank and his mouth wide open, as if he is silently screaming. Slowly, she sinks, and as soon as her bare feet touch the ground, the entire courtyard lights up.
They both startle as their medallions start humming like crazy, and cries of agony shatters the silence.

“We need to move.”

Chapter 24

Notes:

Again darlings, mind the tags. This one is a little gruesome, and we get a lot of POV swaps, but hey! We get to peak inside Basia's head!
Please enjoy!

Chapter Text

The moment her feet touch the cold stone, everything lights up.
It ripples through her like a storm, it builds and it grows and it fills her and she is everything and she is nothing. The chaos is crackling through her bones, mending, breaking, devouring.
Finally, everything came to right.

For months, she had them prepare the keep for what is going to be her release. Experimenting, tomes older than some kingdoms, rites and words that should never had been spoken. Decades of work that finally led her here. Runes carved carefully on every cobblestone, placed in intricate patterns, their designs hundreds of years old. Guiding the chaos from their conduits into her.
She will at long last be strong enough to break her curse.

And then the world will be hers.

Mikolaj has been such a blessing
He believes in her cause, willing to make sacrifices for what they could do, what they could unlock together.
Such a sweet boy. Such a useful boy.

He is whimpering behind her, his spine twisted and broken as he unleashed his chaos to catch her. Mikolaj knew the risks, embraced them. Knew the rewards they would reap would be greater than any physical pain.
It is coursing through her with every beat of her heart, the soles of her feet burning with the twin sensation of hot and cold, it crackles through her veins, more potent than any remedy, more powerful than she has felt in years.

It hurts, as the curse rush through her, fights her. She can feel the bones in her feet shatter, but it doesn’t matter much, with a sweep of her hand she heals them, again and again.
Pain is nothing in the face of absolution.

Just a little more, and she can break it. Break them all.
She clenches her teeth, keeping her scream inside, but it rips out of her anyway. Fingers curved like claws, muscles tense and aching, her voice echoes between the stone walls of the courtyard.

All else is quiet. Everything is her.

Now, she only needs to deal with that slightly troublesome witcher.

~

Showing themselves feels like an incredibly bad idea. The medallion’s angry vibrating is distracting, his back feels naked and empty without his swords. Top priority is to get Eskel out of here, but Geralt is starting to despair.

They have made it down another flight of stairs, looking out another window. The flesh golem is nowhere to be seen, Mikolaj is a broken heep on the ground, his hands reaching for Basia. She doesn’t see him, the lit up courtyard pulses power towards the sorceress, bathing her in cold white light.

It hits him then. Basia won’t stop.

She took Jaskier, she took Eskel, she is trapping the mightiest women he knows. They walked right into her trap. She was waiting for this. Geralt is unarmed and hurt, Eskel barely standing up on his own, the sorceresses on their knees.

The flesh golems won’t disappear until she does.

There is no running from this.

She needs to be stopped.

 

~

 

The pain and the chaos is a violent blend in her blood. Taking step after step slowly into the courtyard sends explosions of agony through her, quickly being chased away by the chaos. The witchers should still be making their way down the tower.
She should have time to play some, before she rids herself on them. Before she extracts her revenge on the woman in front of her.

“You never believed in my cause, Philipa.” She says, her voice coming out a little hysterical, as her body fighting itself punches the air out of her lungs. “You thought me mad.”

Philippa can’t answer, too busy trying to hold herself off the ground, arms and legs shaking against the strain.
Basia kneels in front of her, body protesting as the curse burns, breaking, unbreaking. Tilting her head, she looks at Philippa imploringly.

“You can’t even look at me, huh?” With a cruel grip she grabs Philipa’s chin, tilting her face up in a hash angle, her long, red nails digging into the soft skin.

“I never liked your eyes.”

~

“I need you to stay here.” Geralt says as they catch their breath in one of the untouched guest rooms. Eskel makes a sound that is half snort, half sigh, leaning back against the stone wall.

“You can’t take her.” Eskel rasps, then coughs.

“I know.”

“You are all alone.”

“I know.”

“You don’t even have your sword anymore.”

“I’ll find one. We can’t let her leave.”

“...You’ll die.” Eskel says quietly. This is something they knew would happen eventually. No witcher has met a peaceful end, and if he ever did, it was because he stayed the fuck away from the rest of them. This is as good an end
as any, if he can take Basia with him. Protect Jaskier and the others.

“Got any potions on you by any chance?” Eskel asks finally, reading the decision on his face. Geralt pats himself down, belatedly taking stock of what he got to keep.

Swords and daggers gone, obviously, except for the knifes they took from the tower. The one dimitrium bomb he had, along with the puff ball and grapeshot, taken too. By some small miracle they didn’t find his little bottle pouch, but when he opens it, two out of five bottles are broken. Shards and sticky, smelly liquid is kept inside the pouch by good craftsmanship, and he fishes out what is still usable.

Someone, somewhere must still like him at least a little, and Geralt uncorks and hands Eskel the little bottle of Swallow that somehow survived.

Eskel drinks it down, wrinkling his nose at the taste. After all these years, he still hasn't gotten used to the taste, and Geralt can’t help his small smile.

“I’m going with you.” Eskel tells him, still leaning heavily back against the wall.

“Figured you would say that.” Geralt nods, looking around for anything helpful. “Still affected by the shackles?”

“Not sure.” Eskel opens his palm and does the sign of igni. A small spark of flame, there and then it winks out. “Seems like.”

Something… something is growing in Geralt’s mind. A vague memory.

The golem they trapped was drawn towards Jaskier. The lure of Basia’s magic familiar and calling to it. The golem in this keep ignored him, in favor of the chaos and the battle going on in the courtyard.
A feverish memory, from the back of his mind, how Philippa had cured him, luring the golem taint from him with her own blood, filled with potent magic to be devoured.

Oh.

Geralt had told Jaskier having muted signs might work in his favor, but he had not realized just how true that could be.

“Do you know about Basia’s curse?” Geralt whirls to look at Eskel, desperate to grasp the thought almost within his reach.

Eskel thinks for a moment, cradling his broken hand closer to his body.

“Only that she wants to break it, but can’t? That Mikolaj boy was the one doing most of the things, except the torturing.”

Anger prickles under Geralt’s skin. Fucking figures.

“Philippa told us the curse eats her magic. Did you see the golem?”

“Smelled it.”

“Theory is Basia used her curse to create them, failed experiments when the curse took hold of the chaos. It ignored me on its way out to the witches.”

Eskel fixes Geralt with a hard stare.

“It’s drawn to magic?”

“Could be. I had a run-in with it, they stopped the infection but it ate what little magic I have.”

“That’s why you weren’t affected as harshly by the shackles.” Eskel realizes, and Geralt nods affirmingly.

“Probably. But that also means it will take longer to regain them, if at all? But that doesn’t matter now.” Geralt says.

“If she is draining the witches, she should be like a lit beacon to that golem.”

Something akin to hope, a vague sense of direction, grows in Geralt’s chest. Eskel is already looking slightly better, not as sickly pale anymore, even if his breath still comes fast. He will probably be able to move better too, if stiffly.

“I wonder how much control she has over it.” Geralt grumbles.

Hopefully enough to move undetected, should the need arise.

“We should find out.” Eskel grins. “Let’s give her hell.”

Chapter 25

Notes:

CW for eye trauma and vomiting?
but y'all already know this is pretty gruesome so xD

 

ALSO HELLO! Oh my god this chapter has been.... a struggle. See, I keep not planning ahead, keep painting myself into corners, and keep overthinging!
Also endings hard.
Thank you endlessly, Kuri, for saving my butt over and over again. My angel!

BUT WE ARE CLOSING IN!!!
BOSS FIGHT TIME!! Enjoy <33

(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)

Chapter Text

Disgusting.

Basia wipes her fingers on her dress, blood staining the fabric. There is more on her hands, her nails, her arms, staining the cuffs of her sleeves.
It is disappointing that Philippa didn’t scream. At least she isn’t staring at her anymore with those piercing eyes. The blond sorceress next to Philippa retches, bile wetly hitting the stones. It makes Basia smile, how pathetic they become when they are robbed of their chaos.

Serves them right. Now they know how she felt.

Mikolaj is still whimpering below the tower, but he isn’t moving anymore. A pity. But the sigils of her trap around him are lit up, so maybe he will prove to be useful yet.
Even now, helping her, making her stronger.

Just one nuisance left.

“Geraaalt,” she sings, walking back to the middle of the courtyard. She has to stay here until the process is done, until all their chaos is hers.
Then she will break this fucking curse and bend the world to her will.

-

All the soldiers seem to have left when the sorceress activated her trap. Every hallway Geralt passes is empty of everything but the signs of fighting. There is no one left.
Good.
Geralt is not sure any normal humans would survive what is going on here, and he doubts that any of them were paid well enough to be eaten by a fucking flesh monster.

 

On the bottom floor, the smell hits him again. Rancid and rotten, but far away. Probably on the other side of the house then. He follows the scent, tracking it towards a dead end.
This is all a gamble. So many things could go wrong, and things will be even more painful if it succeeds. Geralt just hopes he can come back to Jaskier…

No. No such thoughts now.

Slowly he creeps through the rooms, keeping a keen eye out so as to not be taken off guard. Probably would be hard to, considering the smell gets stronger with every step he takes, but he can’t afford to make any mistakes. Not when the only way out seems to be back.

Not when the remains of a body lies on a discolored carpet, barely recognizable from the clothes left behind.
Geralt steps over it carefully, pitying the poor fuck that didn’t get away. But the soldier had a sword, and even if it is plain steel, it will have to do.

He picks it up, inspecting it. It’s a little lighter than he would prefer, but beggars can’t be choosers. Witchers adapt.

The leather belt strap and the sheath are ruined, so he leaves them. With some luck, Eskel will be able to find at least some of their gear that was taken, but it doesn't seem likely.
There is no guarantee this will work, but there is no room for doubt. Sword in hand, he creeps closer, mentally mapping out the route. He needs to be able to make a quick escape when it is on his heels, and lead it to the courtyard without incident. The last one he encountered had surprising speed and terrifyingly long reach, and there is no doubt this one will be any different. The question is if it will follow him or not, considering how little magic is left in him.

His question is answered moments later, when he manages to kick a copper vase that clatters across the floor. Cursing himself, he looks up, only to see one of the many faces of the flesh golem materialize on its back. Its dead eyes lock with his, and its body doesn’t turn so much as its many limbs twist to face him. Then it starts to move.

The sound it makes is hard to describe, dead, wet air pushing through its many orifices as its weight shifts, and it makes Geralt feel sick. It moves towards him faster than should be possible, and Geralt turns and retraces his steps. Over the shards of a broken pot, sidesteps the tipped over dresser and turned-over drawers. The stink is everywhere, making it hard to think, but he knows his body and he knows his instincts, and he trusts the steady beat of his feet across the floor.

He skids around a corner, and only a few steps later, the wet sound of the golem’s body colliding with the doorway reaches him. It buys him a few precious moments. Spotting the doorway leading to the arches outside the courtyard, Geralt dashes there. The air burns in his lungs, too soon, but that is the effect of dimeritium. His body is still fighting to recover, and it is making him sluggish.

Without a second thought, he runs out the doors, through the archways and into the courtyard. It is like running through a barrier. He can feel the power of the runes tug at his knees, pulling him downwards. If this is how he feels without his magic, Geralt can only imagine what the sorceresses are going through. He manages another few steps, then another few, before Basia notices him.

“There you are!” Basia says by way of greeting. Her hands are bloody, and there are stains on her dress. In front of her, Philippa struggles to stay up on her hands and knees. Blood drips down her cheeks, collecting in a mess on the ground. “I was beginning to think you wouldn’t show up. Wasn’t very nice of you to push me off that balcony, was it? You broke Mikolaj!”

She points behind her at the broken man lying below the tower.

“Why don’t you just fix him?” Geralt asks. “You seem to have regained your powers.”

“There are more important things to deal with right now, witcher,” Basia says cooly, stretching out her hand and aiming it at him.

The power of three sorceresses explodes from her, and Geralt only manages to get out of the way by throwing himself down on the cobblestones, his elbows taking the brunt of the fall. His body feels heavy, but he rolls, keeping up the momentum to bring himself further to the other side. From behind him, he can sense the slow movement of the golem, bringing itself closer with more caution.

From the corner of his eyes, he notices movement. Mikolaj is moving, groaning as he braces himself on his elbows, dragging his limp body forward.
His legs don't seem to be working, and his face is pale and contorted in pain.
Geralt can’t linger on it, however, because Basia is shooting another curse at him, thick, purple lightning blackening her fingertips as they leave her.

Geralt has never been hit by lightning before. When he has been out in storms, there have been a few close calls. The rumbling of the clouds above, the air so thick it makes the small hairs on his arms rise. The heat and the crackling sensation of electricity as it strikes a nearby tree, or the ground close to them.

It can’t compare to what he feels now. He feels like his insides are liquefying, the blood in his veins boiling. He cries out, can’t stop himself, as he is spasming and Basia laughs.

“You thought you could get away from me? From me? There is no magic left in you, witcher, you are defenseless.”

Mercifully, lightning is short-lived. Geralt lies gasping, resting his head against the cool stone. His nails are blackened, every muscle in his body sore and straining, his skin too tight.
With a quick glance behind him, he can now see the golem just beyond the arch way. It seems drawn to the magic, to the dead, but is mindful of getting closer.

“No fight left in you?” Basia tsks, walking up to him and kicks him in the ribs. He lets her, grunting when she does it again. “I really thought you would be harder to fight.”

“Some monsters take more out of me than others,” Geralt snarks from where he lies. Truly, he is not in a position to do so, but he must keep her busy.

Her retaliation is quick, another pointed kick in the ribs, and he hisses through clenched teeth.

“Something has been tickling my mind, though, witcher,” she says, walking in a slow circle around him. Geralt takes the opportunity to push himself up on his elbows, body screaming in protest.

“All of that fighting, and for the bard? Why does he matter? You left him on that mountain, did you not? You broke him way before I did.”

A kick would have been more merciful. It is still a sore spot, still something he regrets, but they've moved past that. Sliding his elbow forward, Geralt tries to ignore her.

“I can understand your brother,” Basia muses. “Oh, the things I could accomplish with him. But the bard?”

“If he didn’t matter, why did you take him?” Geralt can’t help but to ask angrily. He pushes himself forward, crawling a few inches closer to his goal.

“He did turn into a great success. A great tool, all in all.”

That makes Geralt turn around and glare at her, and she laughs. Behind her, the golem is edging around the courtyard, but not braving it.
Maybe this was a miscalculation. Maybe she has more control over the golem than he realized, and they all will die here.

“Why are you playing with me? Why not kill me and be done with it?”

“Am I not allowed to gloat? What say you, Philippa, don’t you think I deserve to?” she taunts, turning towards the frozen, kneeling sorceresses. Somewhere on his right, there is a grunt, and Geralt suddenly remembers Mikolaj again.

The broken mage has gotten closer, done way better progress than Geralt has, even as he is slowly turning gray. The closer he gets, the worse the smell becomes. The tips of his fingers are gray now, nails torn and bloody as he drags himself forward with single minded intent.

There is blood at the corner of his mouth, and his breathing sounds wet and heavy.
Basia notices him too, and she strolls over towards him.
Geralt can hear her bones snapping, healing, snapping, as she hunches down in front of him.

“Help… me…” Mikolaj begs her, eyes watery and bloodshot.

The smile Basia gives him is sweet. She touches his cheek, dried blood flaking and sticking to her skin and sleeve.

“When I have broken the curse, I will.”

Mikolaj won’t live until then. They all know it, and something in the young mage’s face crumples when she says it. The runes are draining him, as is the stinking gray that consumes him, and his broken bones.

“Then break it.”

“Oh I will. But I have to finish. I can’t have any witnesses when I do it.”

“You promised,” he pleads wetly. “You said I would be by your side.”

Something glints in Mikolaj’s hand, but the sorceress doesn’t seem to notice. She lifts his head further and presses a kiss onto his forehead.

“You will be. Just not as you are now.”

Geralt’s medallion has been vibrating since he entered the courtyard, but he can sense when something passes between the two in front of him.

Basia opens her mouth to speak, but then her eyes become blank.

For a long moment, their eyes are locked, and then her hand twitches as Mikolaj surges up and plunges a dagger into her shoulder.

Notes:

Tehehee. Now lets hope it wont take me another *quick finger count* six months to write the next one.....

Chapter 26

Notes:

Teeheehee, meanie panda ahead. Oh and gore and violence.

(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)

Chapter Text

Pathetic. Mikolaj dragged himself all the way to her feet, only to beg for his life. Not unexpected, but she had thought he would be more understanding.
She kisses his forehead, though the stench of him is terrible, but allows the contact as more of his power drains from him and into her.

“You will be. Just not as you are now.”

When she next looks at him, and opens her mouth to speak, she sees herself.
Mouth open, eyes blank.

The fucker mindmelded her?! Now?!

She watches as Mikolaj’s hand rises, watches as a dagger buries itself in her shoulder. Basia breaks the link with a scream, dropping backwards and lashing out with clawed hands at Mikolaj’s head. The blast of power sends what is left of his body flying, landing with a sickening thud some feet away.

Her magic is already trying to heal her wound, but the knife is still there, small and insignificant and deadly. Had she not been in the courtyard, she would have been dead.

But she is, and as she pulls out the knife, her body knits itself back together.

Out of the corner of her eye, she notices movement, and her head whips around to behind the blond sorceress.

 

The other witcher, the scarred one, is needling on the ground next to the tower. Despite the measures they took to keep the stones in place, he has managed to dig one up.
It means nothing, what does one matter when there are thousands more.

Then she notices what is in his hands.


She staggers up to her feet, hand reaching for him and hitting him square in the chest with the purple lightning. The witcher falls backwards, body twitching with the electricity running through him, but it is not enough.
The bomb was small, but the explotion dislodges more stones, sending some flying up in the air and crashing down, cracking those they land on.

The chaos flickers.

Fury and fear fills her, and she throws another bolt of lightning his way, but the witcher seems to have rolled into cover, and it hits the side of the building with a rumbling crack.


Her bones are still breaking. She is still healing, but slower now,  and the pain is somehow worse. She screams in frustration, whirling towards the white-haired witcher, Geralt.

 


You,” She hisses, purple flames dancing between her fingers and up her arms. Rage was always her weakness, making her control slip. Every step is agony, but she catches up to him easily, crawling further into the courtyard. “You really think you can stop me? All of you will die, all of you! And then I will kill your precious bard, and your fucking witch! I will get what I’m owed!!!

Basia pulls on the magic beneath her feet, gathering it into her body.


A scream interrupts her, the blond witch has managed to move, and she is clawing at the stones beneath them. Mere fingers won’t get them up, but the witch is insistent. Basia can’t afford to waste more power, can’t let it leave her body, lest she will lose too much to keep up with the curse breaking her.

Basia grabs the knife Mikolaj had stabbed her with, and approaches the blond, struggling witch with measured steps. They don’t need to survive the ceremony. All she needs is their power. Time to end this.

 

 

Geralt can’t tear his eyes away from where Eskel’s body landed. Panic and pain and fear and anger swirl in him, and even if the weakening of the trap makes him feel less heavy, it is so fucking hard to move. 

From here, it is hard to detect any movement, hard to see if he is breathing at all. Geralt watches Basia pick up the knife and stalk towards Sabrina, and fuck, why can’t things just work?! Agonizingly slow, Geralt gets his knees under him, pushing up to a kneeling position. Like this, he can crawl forward.

A wet sound makes Geralt look over his shoulder, and he sees the golem trying the edge of the courtyard. One of its oozing limbs is testing the outermost stones, the runes still glowing, but it meets no resistance.

Geralt needs to go. Now.

On his hands and knees, Geralt crawls forward. He picks up on the sounds of struggle between Sabrina and Basia, hears what seems to be stone scraping against a blade, but he doesn’t turn to look. If the plan works, the golem will be drawn towards the one with the most chaos. There is no telling if Basia has any control over it, and if she does, they are absolutely fucked. 


His only goal right now is to get to Eskel, and then get out of the way. It seems like Basia was slowed when the bomb went off, and if so, maybe Geralt can buy them some time by destroying more of the courtyard. Small fragments of stone dig into his skin, burying themselves in his palms. He will have terrible bruises tomorrow. If he comes out of this alive, that is.

The body of the apprentice is lying motionless on the ground. Geralt has to look away from the mess that was his head as he crawls past, nausea climbing his throat.
It is not as if he hasn’t seen worse. Hell, he’s done worse, but the shape of his body is so much like Jaskier, and he is struck with how brittle life really is. 


Geralt has almost made it to the other side when Sabrina cries out in pain. He spins around, Basia is standing over the other sorceress, her knife dripping with blood as she cackles hysterically.

 

“Why can’t you just STAY DOWN! I told you, I TOLD YOU, I need to finish this!” She raises the knife again and lashes out, marking each word with a cut. “Just! Stay! Put!”

 

Geralt can see the slash connect with Sabrina’s arm, blood trickling down to her elbow, and she falls backwards when Basia kicks her.


The golem is past the line now, and it is moving fast. Its many limbs drag it forward, something deep in its body is making a low, guttural sound as it advances. Basia finally pays attention to it, sweat gathering at her forehead as she swings out her other arm and sends out a blast of fire to fend it off.

Maybe it was instinct, maybe she is not as well versed in her own creation as one would think, but Sabrina takes the opportunity to push herself back, struggling with her skirts to more or less crawl backwards and out of the rune prison.

The moment she reaches the edge, it is like a stone is lifted off of Geralt’s chest.

Basia lets out a scream of frustration, the fire increasing. Geralt can feel the heat all the way over at the opposite side, where he is. Time to move.

He manages to get in an upright position and stagger forward, hand pressed against his ribs. Like this, it takes no time at all to reach the end of the runes, and Geralt almost falls forward with relief when the terrible pressure, the heavy tugging, releases him.

By the wall, Eskel lies unconscious. There is a nasty cut across his brow, and he is being way too still for Geralt’s liking. It would be dangerous to move him, but there is little else he can do.

Looking back again, Basia is now assaulted from two sides, the flesh golem slowly advancing, groaning and reaching, and Sabrina using what magic she has left to haul shards of stone at Basia. 

The witch is looking worse than before, her dress torn and bloody, her hair sticking to her face, and even from this distance, Geralt can see her body breaking and unbreaking. The sounds are sickening, the looks of it even worse. The woman grunts and shrieks, dodging as the golem tries to catch her with a too long arm. Sabrina isn’t looking too good either, they really need to get out of here, but he doubts she will be strong enough to make a portal.

His eyes fall to Triss, who has been strangely quiet during all of this. Geralt can’t make out what she is doing, but she looks focused, staring down at the runes with a cold glare.

Geralt makes the decision to leave Eskel for now. There is nothing he can do right now anyway, and nothing to defend him against. Better save the sorceresses so they can get the fuck out of here. But before he does, he carefully angles Eskel’s body on his side, hoping to keep his airways clear if he does wake up.

Then he trots over towards the fighting. His sword is gone again, but it seems that is the norm around here. A quick look at the courtyard, and the small hairs on the back of Geralt’s neck stand up straight.

 

The apprentice’s body is moving. 

 

As if pulled along on a string, it is rolling, crawling, slithering towards the golem. If there was any doubt in Geralt’s mind what had happened to the victims in the forest, it is now gone.

 

What can he do?

 

Notes:

We get closer and closer to the finish line!
Thank you everybody for reading and commenting, it sparks life and joy in this struggling writer <3

Chapter 27

Notes:

Hello!
So uh. Long time no see on this one?
I finally, finally got a brain spark and the ending has been properly set into motion!! And my traitor brain wanted shorter chapters because damn good cliffhangers etc heheheheh, I am so sorry but also i am so pleased.
Please enjoy this little easing back into it, after 7 months of nothing. And please enjoy Yennefer being a good bean and a good friend.
We are getting there <3

Chapter Text

It’s a weird feeling.

The second pulse, wrapped around her finger, making it twitch.

Yennefer just watches it.
Their bond.

It’s almost like a spasm, or a compulsion, but she doesn't know what happens to Jaskier if she stops.
Unease is coiling around her heart, squeezing it.

They have finally gotten off the table, found the cloak again and wrapped him in it. Both of them are disgusting, dried up blood smudges the runes and patterns she painted them both in. Jaskier has wiped off the splatter around his mouth at least, but they are both a fucking mess.

They leave the table where it is, too tired to even try to move it, slowly walking back towards the house. The air is cold, clear, the night darkening further when heavy clouds roll in. Jaskier clutches the cloak tighter around him as the wind picks up. She feels the cold seep in through their bond.

They should probably get a bath. Her dress is pretty much only fit for burning, the weight of dark magic clinging to the fabric, soaking in deeper with the runes smearing on them. Had she thought ahead, she would have drawn a bath before the ceremony. Heating up water takes much less energy than conjuring it, and she always feels cleaner with real water.

Jaskier doesn’t speak as they approach the door, only holds himself up stiffly.

She doesn’t like the silence. It is not like him.
Not like them, actually. Yennefer is almost missing their bickering.

Maybe they can find their way back to that. Maybe they are changing, too. Maybe change is better.

Glancing at the bard from the corner of her eye, Yennefer notices Jaskier smiling.

“What?” she asks, and the smile grows.

“You are thinking so loudly I can hear the creaking of your rusty old cogs turning.”

Yennefer rolls her eyes at him.

“Well, one of us has to,” she fires back, and Jaskier chuckles. Where their jibes used to carry real sting, it’s now replaced with something else. Something that just might have turned into a strange friendship, despite it all.

They step inside, and Yennefer instantly gravitates towards the kitchen.

She pours them two cups of cider, offering the second one to Jaskier. Their fingers touch, and she almost expects something to happen, the bond to react, but there is nothing. Peculiar.
The cider is sweet on her tongue, but it doesn’t quite manage to wash away the taste of iron. Jaskier is also making a face as he sloshes the cider around in his mouth.

“Tasteful,” she remarks, taking another pointed sip from her drink. Jaskier’s retaliation is gurgling the cider, and spitting it back out into the cup. “Disgusting.”

“Not worse than literally drinking your blood, hag of my heart.” He smirks when she rolls her eyes again, and takes out another cup for himself.

The table is still outside, so they only have the chairs in the main room, and a small side table. They move it to the middle of the room and drag two chairs to either side of it.
Jaskier puts logs in the fireplace, stirring the fire, whilst Yennefer conjures water into a pot. When it is warm enough, the bard pours it into the washing basin Yennefer fetched from their rooms. Neither of them feels like being alone right now.

The rag is a little rough, but the runes are clinging to her skin, and she rubs at it with quiet focus. The water drips red, staining the rest of the water, but she wants it gone. They have served their purpose.
She looks up when she hears a hiss, and Jaskier sucks his teeth as he dabs his rag over his chest.

Shit, right. The stab wound.

“Let me help you,” she offers, because his wound probably needs to be cleaned. Dealt with in some manner at the very least.

She rounds the table without waiting for a reply and steps in close to inspect Jaskier’s chest. Most of the runes and marks she made during the ritual are now washed away, leaving him bare and shivering, and literally torn open.

The edges of the stab wound are not the angry red she expects, but pale. There is blood seeping from the wound, running messily as it was mixed with the water.

Through the bond she can sense his conflict of both relief and worry, which is curious.

“Sure, go right ahead, who needs permission anyway,” Jaskier snarks, but there is an edge to his voice that makes her look up at him.

“Jaskier, I am going to make this very clear. All I am in this is your pulse. I will hold nothing over you, I have no right to make you do anything, nor make you accept anything I say, do or offer. If you don’t want me to look at this, tell me so, and I will not. Your body is your own, and this bond, this hold I have over you, is only to keep you alive. I am not Basia. Understand?”

The bard watches her back, his eyebrow twitching with an emotion she refuses to identify through the bond.

“Wow,” Jaskier croaks finally, throat working as he swallows hard. “I-uh. Think I needed to hear that.”

“Don’t you go crying on me, bard,” Yennefer says, despite her own throat feeling a little tight. “May I look at your wound?”

Jaskier nods his agreement, but jolts when her fingers touch his skin.

He is still a little cool, but not as bad as before. The knife pierced him just above the old scar, its edges discolored but clean. Blood is trickling from it, and she frowns at it.

“I can’t heal it,” she says.” I don’t understand our bond enough to stop the bleeding. I can try to close it, though, and it might heal on its own..”

“Is it strange that I like it bleeding?” Jaskier asks, studying his now red fingers. “I can almost believe her control over me is actually gone.”

“A little. But I get it. Don’t make a habit of it, though, or I will have to learn how to keep it in.”

“Witch,” Jaskier smiles. “I will do my best.”

“Good. We both know Geralt is an ugly crier, were anything to happen to you.”

They smile at each other for a moment, the fireplace crackling.

With a pop of the firewood, the moment is broken.

As a safe house of sorceresses, there is some first aid, yes, but most healing is usually done through chaos. Various instruments lie in the drawers, crystals, rods, chains and scrolls.
There is a little box with needle and thread, bandages and pincers.

She sets up at the side table, washing her hands with strong spirit before she starts preparing. Healing never was her strong suit.

Triss is the one with a steady hand and a firm heart. The needle pierces skin, and the bard grunts.

“Do you think they are okay?” Jaskier asks her quietly, voicing her own insecurity.

“They are the strongest people I know,” Yennefer says, keeping her eyes on the task. Her stitches are tight, but a little crooked. She hates waiting, hates not knowing, hates the helplessness. This she can do.

“Geralt doesn’t have his signs.“

This makes Yennefer stop.

“He doesn’t?”

“Didn’t he tell you? The curse weakened his signs, he can barely use them.”

“That fucking idiot,” she swears, jabbing a little too hard with the needle and making Jaskier wince. She pats him in apology, tying off and cutting the thread.

“He said it might make him harder to track, for the flesh golem. But I… I worry. I can’t lose him.”

Yennefer washes her hands in the basin angrily, water splashing.

“Signs are no more than a party trick compared to what we can do. He has his swords,” she says, a weak attempt at comforting him, but she clenches her jaw angrily. Careless. So fucking careless of him!

Then the surface of the water turns unnaturally still, shining with an unnatural light.
When Yennefer looks down at it, she finds Triss' eyes looking back at hers, bloodshot. Her skin is clammy and pale.

“Triss?” she asks, horror growing in her chest. Sounds are leaking through, and it catches Jaskier’s attention, too. High pitched screeching, moans and squelchy sounds she remembers with terrifying clarity.

“Help us,” Triss manages, her face leaning out of sight of the water basin. Her gaze turns up, away to whatever is making those noises, her lip trembling, her chin scrunching up.

“Help,” she whispers again, “Don’t step on the runes. Help.”

Her hair falls forward over her shoulder, hiding her face from view. Triss keeps mumbling, maybe she doesn’t realize the connection is made, or something is blocking her from seeing them.
Yennefer meets Jaskier’s eyes, his terror mixing with her own.

“Save them,” Jaskier says. “Neither of us want to live in a world where they die. Save them.”

She nods.

Jaskier’s blood is still on her hands as she throws the portal open, anger and fear racing through her.

She hasn’t felt this way since Sodden.

She knows Basia will burn.

Chapter 28

Notes:

Hello lovelies!
I know it hasn't been long since i updated last, but i am.... kinda excited haha.
There has been an update in the tags, please mind them! I will also keep warning on top of the chapter if there is anything especially bad in there.
If you have any questions regarding that, don't hesitate to reach out!
Please take care <3

(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)

Chapter Text

The apprentice's body moves on its own, stretching towards the Flesh Golem and shifting into that same gray consistency.

Nausea builds, and Geralt has to swallow hard. It is not many sights that have this sort of effect on him, having seen so much more than a man should. The sound of the many bodies connecting with another will haunt him for many years to come. If he lives.

There is technically not much Geralt can do about Basia. She is still holding off the Golem best she can, the runes pulsing with power when she draws from them.
From the sorceresses.

Sabrina has managed to push out, but Philippa and Triss are still kneeling on the courtyard. Triss seems to be mumbling, fingers trembling as they hover over the tendrils of blood still dripping from Philipppa’s face, down the cobblestones and gathering in a small puddle.

One last look, and Geralt starts to limp towards them. He sees Sabrina, bleeding and panting, crawl to the edge of the runes and start pulling Triss’ leg, attempting to get her out of there, too. He picks up the pace when Basia notices them, but he is too far away to do anything when she lifts her hand and aims another purple lighting at them.

Both of them scream when it hits, Triss falling back on her haunches as she screams in pain. When Sabrina falls, she doesn’t get up again. Tendrils of smoke rise from her singed dress, her face turned away.
Basia’s back is still against him, but he doesn’t dare risk it. Geralt takes cover where he can, walking crouched over and moving behind pillars until he is close enough.

The Golem shudders when the apprentice body is incorporated within it properly, broken limbs straightening and filling out. It inches towards Triss and Philippa, easier prey than what is in front of him, but Basia sees it. The spell isn’t complete, and they are still her fuel, so she steps between them.

When the fire doesn’t seem to affect it, however, she changes tactics.

With big arm motions, much bigger than he has seen any of the other sorceresses do, she lifts up debris in the air outside her sigil prison. The air shudders with power, trembling as if with heat as she guides them to her battle.

The Golem is pushed further away with the sheer force of it, the storm of stones battering it hard enough for it to skid across the courtyard.

Geralt takes the chance and runs the last bit to the sorceresses. He leans forwards as much as he can without stepping foot on the marked ground, taking hold of Triss’ slim waist. He means to be gentle, but he doesn’t have enough strength to do anything but pull. Her legs bang against the steps as he hurls her out of there, and she lands heavily on her elbows. That is going to bruise badly, he thinks while setting his sight on the next woman.

“She’s not coming,” Triss says, her voice hollow. “She’s not coming.”

He doesn’t have time to wonder who she means, though. Basia is forming the rocks into a makeshift wall, separating the Golem and herself.

Philippa is too far in, he doesn’t have a choice but to take a step forward. The second he does, the heaviness grabs him, pulls him downwards. His mouth tastes like iron, his teeth clenched so hard his jaw hurts. Philippa feels unnaturally heavy when he picks her up, more or less falling backwards with it out of the court yard. She doesn’t make a sound, not even a grunt. He takes the brunt of their fall, air pushing out of his lungs when they land.

Triss is now sitting by Sabrina’s still form, her hands resting over her shoulders.

A few yards away, the air shifts and splits and a portal opens.

Yennefer steps through, her hands ablaze and her eyes calm as death herself.

“BASIA,” she yells, “THIS ENDS NOW.”

The next moment, fire so hot it’s blue grows in her palms, turning into a raging inferno when Yennefer brings them up in front of her.

Geralt can’t take his eyes off her, embers and ash swirling around her as the world burns.

On top of him, Philippa squirms, shifts, and shrinks. It doesn’t make sense, but the weight of her disappears, and in her stead on his arm sits an owl.
Its claws dig into his armor when it pushes up into the air, and then without looking back, it is gone.

With nothing to draw from, Basia can’t diffuse the flames for long.

Her eyes meet with Geralt’s, one long look filled with crazed anger and deathly promise. Instead of protecting herself, she brings her arms up, and what power she has left she uses to tear down the wall over Triss, Sabrina and Geralt.

He watches the rocks crack and crumble, hears Yennefer’s panicked scream and Basia’s manic laughter.

A witcher is meant to protect. That is who they are.

He hopes Jaskier can forgive him, eventually.

Notes:

I am so sorry!!!

Chapter 29

Notes:

I mean, if you are this far in, you are probably ready for it, but please be aware that there is some more gore and serious injuries happening.
Also, if you have seen the updated tags and "character death", it is hinted at in this chapter and relevant in the next.

If you want a heads up, let me know? Otherwise it will be stated at the end of the next chapter.
Be safe, and as always, please enjoy!

(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)

Chapter Text

The wall crumbles. There isn’t enough time for her to save them. She sees Geralt dive forward, covering Triss and Sabrina as best he can, and then the building roars as it collapses.

“NO! NOOOO!” she screams, a fraction of a second too late throwing out a spell to stop the debris covering them. She doesn’t even look towards Basia when she springs forward with a single minded focus. Her ears are ringing, numbing terror making her breath come short, dust and ash sticking to her lashes and making it hard to see.

She is not doing this properly, she is not collecting chaos from around but from within, and she will burn out the second she slips up. It is enough, however, to stop the collapse getting any worse. The dust swirls in the air, and the last rocks roll down the rubble, and only then does Yennefer turn towards Basia. Her hands are shaking with strain already, but she centers herself, breathes in deep and focuses on what she can do.

Somehow, the woman in the courtyard is still alive. On her knees, most of her hair burnt away, her skin blistered and blackened, but she is smiling. Dry, broken lips, wheezing out a hoarse laugh.

“If this is my end, I am not going alone.” Basia’s voice cracks, as does her body. “I will bring this entire place with me. I will devour you.”

She throws out a hand, and something pulls Yennefer closer. It catches her off guard, and she has to take a step forward to stop herself from falling forward. Looking down, she notices the sigils carved into the stones of the courtyard, and Triss’ warning rings in her mind. It doesn’t take much to break Basia’s hold, and Yennefer takes two steps back.

Beyond Basia, the Flesh Golem groans. It is strangely subdued, struggling against the barrier Basia put between them. There is something going on here, and the sly way Basia is studying her only makes Yennefer more determined to end it.

Let the building fall, she thinks. It is tainted with dark magic anyway, seeping into the stone walls and crawling down towards the dirt underneath. Let it crumble and start again.

“I killed your witcher,” Basia taunts. “I took his magic, I took his brother and stupid bard and made them mine.”

No further forward do the tendrils of magic reach. She sits there, waiting for Yennefer’s next move. It doesn’t make sense. Yennefer looks down, studies the runes carved into the ground.

Runes of binding. Runes of amplifying, of growth, their design so old it took her a moment to recognize them. Had Yennefer herself not hunted for power, she might not have known them at all. But she knows them, and sees them pulse faintly.

When Yennefer doesn’t rise to the bait, Basia calls out again.

“I could teach you, you know. Together we could become greater than anybody else. We could rule the continent.”

“And who would be paying the price, Basia? There is no power you could offer me that would be worth the price you already paid. You created your own curse, and built your own prison. If you leave the courtyard, you die.”

She probably will die anyway, even if she stays. The remains of the stolen magic are still running through her, activating the curse to break her, but healing her enough to stay alive. The pain alone would be enough to drive someone mad.

Yennefer turns and hurries to where Triss and the others are buried. She senses something underneath, something alive, but she can’t tell who, or even if it's all of them.

“This is my release! Don’t you see?! This design will set me free!” Basia screaches.

Yennefer pays her no mind.

With a deep breath, Yennefer focuses, draws on the chaos, reads the incantation in her mind. The rubble rattles and shakes, and slowly she uncovers her friends, her family.

There is something glimmering underneath, and when it gets clearer she realizes it is one of Geralt’s signs. A golden, flickering shield, just barely covering part of them.

Yennefer breathes easy when she sees Triss is mostly under it, and so is most of Geralt. But his legs look wrong, really wrong, buried under a boulder the size of his chest.
Triss is holding her hand to Geralt’s sweaty cheek, they are no doubt sharing their strength to keep up the shield.

The moment they are clear of the rubble, it falls, and both witch and witcher sag with relief from the strain. When Yennefer lifts the boulder off Geralt’s leg, the witcher groans loudly in pain.

“DON’T IGNORE ME!” Basia shrieks, another tendril of magic reaching for Yennefer. She easily cuts it off.

Seeing Triss and Geralt alive is enough, and she turns towards Basia again.

“You want release? Have it.”

The fire doesn’t burn as hot this time, but it is bright, and it’s hers.

Basia screams as the first flames lick at her, but when she raises her arms, they part around her. It is a matter of who breaks first.

Yennefer has killed before, of course she has, but this is different. Now she is the attacker, the aggressor, against a woman who is likely doomed. Is it mercy, or is it revenge?

Basia screeches, roars, swears and finally attempts an incantation. Yennefer doesn’t recognize it, but the hairs on her arms stand as the chaos builds. Yennefer presses, the flames moving in on both sides of Basia, trapping her in a burning inferno.

Abruptly, Yennefer is thrown to the ground, her head and shoulder hit the cobblestones hard, making her a little disoriented. Above her, something sizzles past, hitting the wall behind her. Where it lands, black matter is bubbling, oozing, corroding the stone.

Triss stands on shaking legs, looking down at Yennefer with an unreadable expression. Her hair is sticking to her face, her skin streaked with blood and dust and ash.

“I’ll do it,” she says in a voice that Yennefer doesn’t recognize. “There is very little left of me for her to take.”

Triss bends down, her dress in tatters around her legs, and she caresses Yennefer’s calf before dipping her fingers into her boot, fishing out the small knife Yennefer keeps there.

“I love you, Yenna,” Triss says with a tired smile, and Yennefer feels her heart break, but the world is still spinning, and as she pushes herself up, Triss steps out into the courtyard.

The pulsing of power is almost a physical thing, but even if Triss wavers, she doesn’t fall.

“No more, Basia. You have done enough.”

The ground is smeared with soot, still smoking from the heat, but Triss seams unbothered.

“You can’t hurt me, witchling!” Basia taunts, her burns shrinking as Triss’ power runs through her. Triss keeps walking until Basia realizes she is not stopping.

Yennefer tries to stand up when the burnt sorceress throws up a blackened hand and sends a lightning aimed directly at Triss.

Triss falls to her knees, a bitten off scream trapped between her teeth. The knife falls out of her grip, and Triss reaches for it as Basia laughs.
With Triss between them, Yennefer doesn’t dare to do anything, and she can’t step into the courtyard. Triss finds the knife and pushes up to her knees.

A blood chilling scream fills the air. The Flesh Golem has managed to free itself and it lunges towards Basia. Its many limbs are reaching for her, the weight of it pinning her to the ground.

“TRISS! GET OUT OF THERE!” Yennefer screams. Triss is already scrambling backwards, the knife forgotten and her eyes wide in horror.

It’s a massacre. The sounds when it rips Basia apart is deafening, and no amount of healing will be able to put her back together anymore.

Taking a page out of Basia’s book, Yennefer reaches out with her chaos and yanks. Triss lands on top of her, luckily, and as soon as Triss is out, it’s like a bubble has burst.

“We need to get them out of here!” Triss distangles herself and crawls towards Geralt and Sabrina, both lying too still for Yenenfer’s liking.

The building around them is starting to shake, and Yennefer realizes Basia is going to make good on her threat. She will not go alone.
Portals always came easily to her, and Yennefer opens one with swirling arm motions.

“I’ll bring them through,” Triss says, pulling at Geralt’s arms to get a better grip. “You go get Eskel. He should be on the other side. Can you keep the portal open for us?”

“I can,” Yennefer decides, and for good measure, puts up a shield not unlike the one Geralt used around them.

Then, not wasting any more time, Yennefer hurries to where Triss indicated.

It’s not a big courtyard, but it takes her more time than she expects to cross it. Fallen pillars and rocks that were once walls make it harder to navigate through, and keeping up the shield and the portal as she does this is making her slow.

“WE ARE THROUGH!” Triss yells, and Yennefer lets it go. “YEN-” The sound of Triss’ voice cuts off when the portal closes.

There is blood and ichor everywhere. The stench of decaying bodies is unbearable. Yennefer won’t look any closer than necessary to assure herself that Basia is irrevocably dead. She notices her head a bit further away than the rest of her, and sighs in relief at the confirmation.

There is nothing left of Basia’s body, and while tearing it apart, the Flesh Golem destroyed what magic kept it here.

She reaches Eskel, lying on his side with a big gash on his head. She opens a new portal, Triss meeting her on the other side and helping her to drag Eskel through.
One last thing to do.

Yennefer takes a few steps back, away from safety, and reaches. The chaos here is tainted, burned, dark and sick. This will be a bad place for decades to come, draining anyone who ventures here.

She starts the fire below, feeding it with just a sliver of magic. The fire is hungry, as it always is, and devours everything it its way. She feeds it until it is everywhere, then she sends ice across the courtyard, breaking every stone and with it, every sigil.

She tears down the tower with the open balcony. Nothing can escape.
Basia didn’t go alone. She took all of her malice and greed with her, all of her stolen power and spoiled creations.

Finally, Yennefer walks through the portal and doesn’t look back.

Notes:

Man, I can't believe we got this far, and that I finally got here.
Thank you all for your patience and encouragement!
Just a little more to go! <3

Chapter 30

Notes:

WARNINGS; "minor" character death. I think it was clear from the last chapter, but if you want an explanation, feel free to scrool to the end chapter notes and I will make a short recap.

HELLO my loves! Here is a wee littol update for you! Thank you Ebs, my beloved, for helping me beta read this! Did you all know endings are so hard?
Slowly but surely we will wrap this little angst gremling up, I have 1,5 chapter already written!
I just never know when to post! xD
Please enjoy, and take care of yourselves. Survivers guilt is not treating Jaskier very well!

(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)

Chapter Text

Ever since Yennefer left, Jaskier has been pacing. He doesn't know what to do, how to help. He is so fucking useless!

It feels like an eternity before he hears the vaguely familiar sounds of a portal outside, and with it a terrible noise.

He rushes outside in time to see Triss attempting to pull an unconscious Geralt through. Heart beating wildly in his chest, Jaskier is torn between terror and relief, and he rushes to help her.
Together they pull him through and out onto the grass. Something is wrong with Geralt’s leg, and the witcher groans when it catches on the ground as they move him.

Triss lets Jaskier ease him down onto the ground before she returns through the portal.

Triss pulls another person through, the blonde one, and puts her gently down beside Geralt. For a second, she just stares.

Sabrina isn’t moving. Isn’t breathing.

Triss’ lip wobbles before she can school it, then she turns around.

“WE ARE THROUGH! YEN-” But the portal closes, and all goes silent again. “Fuck. FUCK!” She yells, waving her arms frustratedly, and then sighing and wrapping them around herself.

Triss looks terrible. Her eyes are wide and her body is covered in scrapes and dirt. Jaskier can’t bring himself to leave Geralt’s side though, fingers shaking with fear and adrenaline when he unbuckles what he can to inspect the damage.

“That won’t do much, Jaskier. Get a cloth and a knife.” Triss instructs him, and Jaskier is on his feet in a flash.

“Are you alright?” he asks her, belatedly, and she just nods, staring out into the open air.

She looks tired, drained, in a way Jaskier has never seen in her before.
But there is no time to lose, and Jaskier dashes back into the house. The ceremonial knife looks menacing, glinting in the light of the candles. Jaskier snatches it up anyway, and the tablecloth previously tossed haphazardly into the corner.

When he returns, Triss is tending to Sabrina. Or her body, rather.

Thankfully, Triss has already closed her eyes, but he can see blood drying from her ears and nostrils as he approaches.

“Is she…?” he asks anyway, because sorceresses are tough, right?

There is a chance.

But Triss looks up at him solemnly and shakes her head, holding the other woman’s hand in hers.

No.
No, Jaskier is not ready for this.

He hurries to Geralt’s side, and starts cutting off the buckles and clothes in the way. He doesn’t dare touch the leg, afraid to make it worse.

Next thing he hears, another portal opens and Yennefer appears, dragging an unconscious Eskel as best she can.

Triss rushes up to meet her, and together they pull Eskel through. He is much larger than the two women, and as soon as he is through, Yennefer goes back through the portal. It’s only a few steps, they can still see her back, still hear the sounds of the building collapsing on itself, and smell the scent of thick smoke.

It takes only a few minutes, and Jaskier joins Triss’ side to help her put Eskel on his side. His hand looks terrible, and Jaskier’s own fingers throb with the memories of that pain.

When Yennefer is done with her destruction, she steps back through the portal and closes it behind her. Both witchers strained breathing is loud in the sudden silence. Jaskier kneels at Geralt’s side, unsure of what to do next.

“Where is Philippa?” Yennefer asks, looking down on Sabrina’s still form.

“Gone. Transformed into an owl and left. Basia took her eyes.”

Jaskier almost gags, stomach turning with mental images, fueled by memories of pain and cruelty.

Both women study Sabrina on the ground. Her clothes are drenched in blood, her arms and torso cut badly, and her lips look black, almost burned. Jaskier is very glad her eyes remain closed. If there are more injuries, they are hidden under her clothes, and Jaskier can’t make himself look too closely.

“What killed her?”

“She was still recovering from a run in with a rogue sorcerer in Temeria, and Basia was merciless.” Triss glances at Jaskier, reading his expression. “But there is nothing we can do for her now. We should attend to the living.”

The living.

He knows she didn’t mean it like that, but still it stings.
He looks down, watching Geralt’s pale form. After a moment, Yennefer joins him, touching a hand to Geralt’s brow. Jaskier notices her hand shaking.

“Are you alright?” he asks, and she gives a faint smile without looking up.

“Fine. The ceremony and the fight took a lot out of me.”

Together, they tend to Geralt best they can. Yennefer lays a hand on his bad leg, both she and Geralt grimacing when she does.

“This I won’t be able to heal, but he is stable.” She rises and walks over to Triss, who has been cleaning the wound on Eskel’s head.

Jaskier almost feels bad for ignoring them, but he is sick with worry. Reminding himself that this is not his fault doesn’t help, because every fiber of his being pulses with guilt. He traces his fingers over Geralt’s face, his cheek bones, his lower lip, the line of his jaw, his brow.

At some point, Geralt wakes up, and Jaskier lets his hand rest on Geralt’s chest instead.

“Hi,” Geralt croaks when he notices him, and Jaskier almost sobs in relief.

“Hi,” he echoes in reply, smiling and blinking away tears.

“What happened?” Geralt looks around, and then notices the others. “Eskel?”

“He will live,” Yennefer tells them, wiping her hands on her dress and standing up. “There is little I can do for any of you until I have rested. Let’s get you inside.”

Jaskier half expected them to use the tablecloth to move them, but instead, Triss uses it to cover Sabrina whilst Yennefer levitates Eskel in front of her and towards the house.

They remain silent as they wait, Jaskier and Geralt’s hands find each other and hold on for dear life.
His fingers are stiff, his fingernails almost black, but all Jaskier can think of is the kiss in the garden, and how close he was to losing him.

He needs to make things right.

Yennefer returns after a while and levitates Geralt the same way she did Eskel. Jaskier is forced to let go, but trails behind them into the room Geralt had used earlier today.

It’s not even been a day. It doesn’t feel like they won the way things went.
Geralt groans and clenches his fist when he is placed on the bed, his leg probably hurting like hell.

“We did win, right? Did you kill her?” Jaskier asks before Yennefer leaves again.

“We won, Jask,” she says with another tired smile. “The flesh golem killed her. A poetic end, don’t you think?”

She closes the door behind her as she leaves, and Jaskier is not sure what to do. There is a chair along the wall, so he pulls it up to Geralt’s bed, offering his hand again. Immediately, Geralt takes it, his hand dirty and clammy.
Maybe he should get some water, attempt to clean him up a bit.

“Will you tell me about it?” Jaskier asks, their fingers dancing around each other. It’s comforting and it makes his heart beat faster that Geralt allows it.

“Tomorrow? Could you bring me my bag? I should still have some painkiller potion or swallow in there.”

Jaskier’s hand immediately feels cold when he lets go, but he stands up and goes looking. The potions are familiar to him, and it doesn’t take long for him to find it. It feels too light, however, and when he returns by Geralt’s side and opens it, it is confirmed to be true.

“Are you sure it’s a good idea to take Swallow?” Jaskier ventures. “Shouldn’t you let Yennefer look at your leg first?”

“It will heal,” Geralt assures him, picking up a bottle and examining it.

Through the wall, he can hear the door open in the empty room next to theirs. The one that Jaskier had been kept in. If he would take a guess, he suspects the body of the blonde sorceress is being kept there for now.
There is a light knock at their door, and Triss’ head pops in.

“Do you need anything? Jaskier, you can take my room for the night, and I’ll stay with Yennefer.”

“Thank you, Triss. How are you feeling?”

Triss blinks and looks down at the floor.

“Tired,” she says finally, saying more by saying less. It’s like she lost more than words can say. “But I’ll recover. We always do, don’t we?”

They share a smile, and she closes the door behind her. Jaskier watches the door for a long moment, hoping that Triss and Yennefer will allow themselves to be cared for. Melitile knows they deserve a respite after all he pushed into their laps.

The silence that follows is broken by the popping of a cork, and Jaskier turns just in time to see Geralt down what he suspects to be Swallow.
Jaskier watches his throat bob, and accepts the empty bottle when Geralt is done. Even as Geralt downs the second bottle, their hands remain clutched together, fingers intertwined.

When that too is done, Jaskier takes the bottle and places it and the bag under the bed. He can’t stop touching Geralt, can’t stop the guilt and the pain roiling heavily in his stomach.

“I am so sorry,” he manages at last, but is somehow still surprised when it comes out as a sob. “This is my fault. If I hadn’t been taken, I-”

“-Hush, Jask,” Geralt soothes, cupping his cheek and thumbing away hot tears. “It was never your fault. If anything, it’s thanks to you that it’s finally over. She can’t hurt anyone ever again.”

“But Sabrina-”

“-Volunteered to join the battle, despite knowing what happened to you.”

“Eskel-”

“-Would have been taken, even if she didn’t catch you first. Probably would have broken him worse.”

“Your leg-”

“-Will heal. Jaskier,this was not your fault. You are not a burden. You were a victim and now you are a survivor, and that witch won’t be able to reach you anymore.”

Jaskier’s sight is blurry with tears, they streak down his face uselessly, and despite being the one hurt, Geralt pulls him closer in an awkward hug to comfort him.
Fuck, why can’t he do anything right?

Geralt’s fingers are warm against the nape of his neck, and Jaskier rests his forehead to Geralt’s shoulder. His hands are trembling badly, and he is probably holding on a little too hard, but Geralt doesn’t protest, just holds him as close as the angle allows.

There is a relief mixed in with the guilt, making it all feel somehow worse. It takes a long time to calm down, and Geralt’s shirt is wet from tears, but he is warm and familiar, and just being near helps. Eventually, he sighs, the deep, freeing kind of sigh when you are finally done crying.

“I’m sorry,” he says again, feeling Geralt take a breath to speak as his face remains pressed against the witcher’s chest.

“Don’t be.”

His back is hurting from leaning forward, and he finally rises enough to wipe his eyes.

“But you are hurt, and still you are comforting me.”

“There are many types of hurts, Jask. Just because yours is less visible, it doesn’t mean it isn’t deeper.”

“Is this what you have been hiding behind your humming?” Jaskier jokes, giving a broken chuckle as he collects himself. “What can I do?”

They both know there isn’t much he can do, but he feels so fucking useless.

“Help me with my boots?” Geralt asks, and, well, yeah, shit.

The good leg is not much of a problem, only making Geralt grimace a little when it jostles him. The other leg, however, looks like a nightmare.

“Geralt, I’m not sure I can touch it,” Jaskier ventures. “I could maybe… cut it off? The boot, I mean, not the foot, uh.”

He is making himself nauseous just thinking about it. It’s too much.

“I think we have to. I have taken the numbing potion, that will help. Or if you could help me get Yennefer?”

“She is exhausted.”

“So are you. Jaskier, you literally died today. We’ll take it step by step.”

Right.
Addressing the Kikimora in the room, then.

Jaskier swallows hard, clenching his jaw and making an effort to push down the useless feelings again.

It seems like Geralt realizes his words weren’t very helpful, and he reaches for Jaskier once more, but no.

Without another word, Jaskier leaves to go knock on Yennefer’s door. He knows where she is without looking, without knowing the house, the thread between them guiding the way.

He hears gentle murmurs on the other side of the door, and he hates to disturb them, but there is little choice to be had.

“Come in, Jaskier,” Yennefer calls through the door even before he knocks. It creaks open and he stands awkwardly, holding the handle tightly.

“I need help cutting Geralt’s boot off, I-” he starts, hating he can’t even do that. The two women are curled up against the headboard, Yennefer dabbing at a wound on Triss’ shoulder.

He wants to apologize again, but holds his tongue.

“Give me one moment and I’ll go.” Yennefer’s eyes remain on Triss’ shoulder, but Triss catches her hand and smiles gently.

“Go. The sooner we get that boot off, the better. I’m alright.”

With great reluctance, Yennefer stands, eyes locked on the other woman’s face.

“Jaskier will stay with me, won’t you?” She says, looking at him now. Jaskier nods hurriedly, and walks up to them, infinitely grateful he doesn’t have to witness Geralt’s pain.

He is such a coward.

Yennefer flicks his arm and wags a finger at him in warning.

“None of that! I can hear your thoughts, and if you think that one more time I will flick you somewhere much more uncomfortable than your nose.”
Jaskier snorts, despite himself, and Triss cracks a tired smile.

“I’ll stay with her,” Jaskier says, rubbing his arm as if Yennefer hurt him greatly. “And I’ll make sure you end up with at least one song stuck in your head for the trouble.”
Yennefer eyes him, up and down.

“Sing one line of A murder of Crows, and I’ll do worse than flicking.”

“Are you flirting with me? Triss, is she flirting with me? This is how she flirts, right? Threats of bodily harm?”

It’s Triss’ turn to snort, the most ladylike snort he ever heard.

“You should see her when she flirts on purpose,” Triss says, eyes shining with mirth despite looking absolutely drained.

If Yennefer smiles as she leaves the room, they pretend not to notice, but Jaskier tucks the memory and hides it near his heart.

 

Yennefer returns after a good long while, way longer than Jaskier would have preferred. She looks tense and pale, and heaves a sigh when she closes the door behind her.

“Eskel is awake. Had to splinter his fingers.”

“I could have helped you with that,” Triss shoots in, but Yennefer waves her off.

“It’s already done. You can check on him in the morning.”

“And Geralt?” Jaskier asks anxiously. He hadn’t heard anything, but maybe Yennefer had enough left in her to put up some kind of silencing charm.

“Asleep. Did what I could for his leg. Don’t sleep in his bed tonight, Jaskier.”

That was pretty much what he expected, but worry still flares up in him.

“I’ll take the bedrolls and sleep on the floor,” he agrees, because he can’t stand being apart tonight, despite the room Triss offered. He stands up. “Thank you, Yennefer, for everything. I don’t know where we would have been without you.”

There is a beat of silence, because they all know how very fucking true that is. If she hadn’t been able to step in at literally every turn of this shitshow, none of them would have survived at all.
When it has been silent a beat too long, Jaskier reaches for her hand. She lets him, almost as a handshake, but he just squeezes her fingers, hoping it's comforting.

“I will see you tomorrow,” he says, and when she smiles he dares pull her in for a hug. It says a lot that she doesn’t resist, that she even leans into it. She rests her head against him, then pats him on the chest dismissively.

“Go to your man. I’m tired of your face now,” she teases, stepping back.

“Witch,” he replies goodnaturedly, and moves towards the door.

 

The floor is hard, even through the bedrolls, but he can see Geralt’s chest rising and falling from here, and watch how he flinches in his sleep when he shifts.
It takes a long time for sleep to take him.

He realizes that this is the first sleep in a long, long while where he doesn’t fear waking up.

And then the dreams claim him.

Notes:

Short recap in case you need to skip:
Triss pulls Geralt and Sabrina through the portal, Sabrina doesn't survive.
Geralt is unconcious but eventually wakes and upon Yennefers return, all unable to walk for themselves are levitated into the house and being taken care of.
Jaskier is feeling useless and bad, and Geralt soothes him, and then Yennefer helps take off the boot on Geralt's very fucked up leg.
Philippa is still missing, but they have finally come back together to the safe house.

Chapter 31

Notes:

CW burial and talk about injuries?
I mean hi hello my lovelies!
We are back with some more undead Jaskier! And I have actually managed to get a lot of writing in lately, yaay! So uh... that means we up the chapter count just a little xD please forgive me, but I promise some excitement!!
Please enjoy and please remember to be kind to yourselves!

(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)

Chapter Text

They burn Sabrina’s body the next evening.

It is said the second day is supposed to be the worst, and by all the gods, do they feel it. Eskel is put on bedrest, despite claiming his injuries aren’t that bad. The bump on his head from when he was knocked into a building is visible even to Jaskier’s untrained eye, and his bruises and wrapped up hand brings up unpleasant memories, so Jaskier is staying clear.

To be fair, he is rather focused on Geralt, and helping the remaining sorceresses in what ways he can. A woman named Fringilla shows up at some point, disappearing with Triss into the room where they are keeping Sabrina’s body.

 

Yennefer does the best she can for Geralt, but something is very wrong with his knee. Taking Swallow did help with the immediate pain and hurried the healing process yes, but according to Yennefer, it is healing wrong.
Which means having to break it again and set it right.

They quickly decide that they won’t do that here, the safe house already put at risk by all of them coming and going.
Jaskier spends the afternoon gathering what firewood he can for the pyre, determined to pull his weight. When he returns, they of course have conjured most of the firewood needed, but it felt right anyway, even if he didn’t know her.

By the time it is dark, another sorceress has joined them; she is introduced to him as Keira. She too does what she can for both witchers, but she agrees with Yennefer to wait until they have somewhere else to stay.

Jaskier watches the women of the Lodge gather outside, circling around the pyre they built. Neither witchers nor bard were allowed to join their ceremony, and Jaskier is secretly relieved. The bond that Yennefer and he shares is still fresh, and even if they practiced keeping it closed, guilt and regret and pain trickles through it, tugging at his heart.

So he stands by the window on the upper floor, not a single light lit in the house except for Geralt’s and Eskel’s rooms.

The shadows are gathering around him, and he lets his hand rest against the window sill. He trails the wooden grain with the tips of his fingers as he watches. Of course he can’t hear them, can barely see them for that matter. It is a long time until the fire is lit, and it takes quickly. Most of the smoke is hidden by the darkness of the trees and the night sky, but even from this distance, he can smell it in the air. In the distance, he can hear the call of an owl.

At some point, something sparkles in the smoke, there and gone again.
That is when Jaskier decides he has seen enough.

He knocks on Eskel’s door, popping his head inside when he hears a muffled reply.

“Need anything? I think I’m about to retire for the night.”

Eskel has a little bit more color now than this morning, or it could be a trick of the light. His eyes look hollow though, and the scar on his cheek stands out in stark contrast in the candle light.

“I’m alright. Boring as shit to be in bed, though, but recovering is also a part of a witcher’s job.” Eskel says, rolling his eyes as he says it. It feels a little like he is quoting someone, and Jaskier has a vague recollection of Geralt saying something like it in the past.

“Yell if you need something; Geralt should be able to hear you and let me know.”

Eskel nods his agreement and puts down his book to turn to Jaskier a little better.

“How is he?” Eskel asks softly.

Jaskier looks at the floor for a second, before focusing on Eskel again.

“Geralt is going to spend a lot of time recovering,” he settles on. “His knee was crushed by the falling building, and because he took Swallow, Yennefer says she might have to refracture it to set it right.”

Eskel whistles quietly. “Yeah, that is going to take him off the path for a while.”

“But witchers heal, right? He will come back from this?”

Before replying, Eskel draws in a breath, choosing his words.

“Bottom line, witchers are still humans. We are not indestructible, we are not immortal. We get slow and then we die.”

Jaskier feels his heart speed up, his breathing coming faster just at the thought.

“Only time will let us know where we end up. I don’t want to scare you, but I know you care for him. He might have to find another path to walk, if that knee ever allows him again.”

That was… not what he wanted to hear.
Probably what he needed to hear, but still.

“Take care of him, Jaskier,” Eskel says when Jaskier doesn’t find the words to respond.

“I will. Good night, Eskel.”

He closes the door, and just holds the handle for a moment.
Jaskier has no idea what tomorrow will look like. Where they will end up. Where they will go from here. What life will look like, come morning.

It doesn’t matter.
No matter what kind of path they will end up on, Jaskier will find a way to join Geralt on it.

Even if he has to shape up and actually work again, he will do it.

 

Geralt is still awake when Jaskier steps inside their room. Much like his brother, he sits with a book in his lap, looking up when Jaskier joins him.

“You good?” Geralt says by greeting, and Jaskier sits down on the bedroll, leaning back against the bed frame.

“Have you ever seen a sorceress die?” He asks, looking down on his hands, tracing his shortened pinkie.

“I have. Killed a few, too,” Geralt says quietly.

Jaskier doesn’t know what to say to that. He knows this, objectively. Sometimes protecting people means hurting others.

“Do you know what the Lodge stands for?” Geralt asks after a moment of silence. When Jaskier shakes his head, Geralt closes his book and puts it to the side. “They are on the side of chaos. They do what is best for magic. It is a high risk game.”

Geralt’s hand finds the back of Jaskier’s neck, rough, too warm fingers tracing, playing with the small hairs in the back of his neck.

“Did you know my mother was a druid?”

Jaskier turns to look at Geralt, surprised, hand now on the side of his neck.

“I didn’t. You don’t like to speak of her.”

Goosebumps travel from his neck down his arms when Geralt’s hand keeps brushing across his skin, tracing his ear.

“I don’t know much about her. She left me outside Kaer Morhen when I was little, and she came to me once, after the dragon hunt.”

Jaskier looks down, but Geralt puts a finger under his chin to make Jaskier look at him.

“A ghoul had bitten me, and I was delirious. Maybe it was all just a fever dream, but she was there. All she could tell me was that ‘it was for the greater good’.”

When Geralt cups his cheek, Jaskier leans into it.

“We all choose something to fight for. Basia chose power. Sabrina chose Chaos. Visenna chose balance. I chose family. You.”

“Geralt…”

It makes Jaskier ache, pleasant but heavy it fills his chest to the brim. He covers Geralt’s hand with his own, just enjoying the warmth.

This is not the time, but words are on the tip of his tongue, ready to put a name to the emotion that has been his companion for many years.

When Jaskier doesn’t speak, Geralt lets him go.

“Would you play something? It’s been a while since I heard you sing,” Geralt says with a smile, and Jaskier can’t help but smile back.

“For you, anything,” he responds and reaches for the lute.

---

Yennefer had seen Jaskier stand in the window as they left the house. A dark silhouette against an even darker house.

He isn’t there anymore, and she can’t blame him. Some minutes ago, as the pyre was slowly dying down, there was a surge of love through their connection, so she is pretty sure she knows where he is.

Returning to the house proves it, as she hears the soft plucking of strings and Jaskier’s voice singing gently. Once upon a time, she would have found the sound grating, but now, it feels right. Giving life to a house that is so full of pain and loss.

Keira and Fringilla give her questioning looks, but say nothing about it.

What is left of the Lodge gathers around the table of the dining room. Yennefer sets up a privacy bubble, muffling their voices from the outside.

“Basia may have been stopped, but we have some cleaning up to do,” Yennefer says matter of factly. “That first lair we found needs to be cleaned out too, and that might not be the only one.”

“Any word about Philippa?” Keira asks, and Triss shakes her head.

“I don’t think she is far, but probably not someone we can count on for the foreseeable future. To protect our kingdoms, this needs to be done,” Triss says, aimed towards Fringilla, who has made her place with a court in the south.

“Considering what she cost us, it cannot be allowed to happen again,” Fingilla nods.

That’s putting it mildly.

This entire thing with Basia culminated all too quickly. It’s been weeks since she first met her, days since the flesh golem in the woods.

Hours since she killed Jaskier, and minutes since she buried Sabrina.

The privacy bubble stops their voices from leaking out, but she can still hear Jaskier sing. Some sort of lullaby now, soft and gentle.
Triss meets her eye across the table, and they share a look.

 

Another hour is spent organizing what’s to come, and where to go from here.

When all is finally said and done, Keira and Fringilla portal out, and Triss leads Yennefer upstairs. They share a room again, needing comfort more than they need a spacious bed. Not that Yennefer didn’t already make it larger.

It’s been a long time since she was this drained. Yennefer can’t even begin to imagine how Triss must feel, devoid of chaos as she is.
Maybe it shows on her face, but as they settle down, the corner of Triss’ mouth ticks up.

“Don’t look at me like that. I’m fine.”

‘I love you, Yenna’, echoes in the back of her mind, the panic she felt then making itself known again.

“You almost weren’t. Don’t ever do that again,” Yennefer says quietly, reaching for her hand. Triss gives it easily, their fingers lacing together.

“I can’t promise that. You know I can’t,” Triss says softly. “But for what it’s worth, I’m sorry I scared you.”

For a long moment they don’t say anything, just looking at their hands. Thinking back on her conversation with Jaskier, how close it was to happening. It could have been Triss on that pyre.

“I love you, too,” Yennefer blurts out, fingers tightening around Triss’. “I need you to know that.”

It makes the other woman smile, soft and pleased, and she lifts Yennefer’s hand to press a kiss to her knuckles.

“I know, Yenna,” she says gently.

They fall asleep curled up around each other.

Tomorrow feels so far away, tucked under blankets and covered by the night as they are.

Tomorrow they need to make preparations to move. Kaer Morhen is a good option, considering both witchers and sorceresses need time to recover, and how very well hidden it is.

For now, however, exhausted sleep pulls her under, to prepare her for what is yet to come.

Notes:

One cold mountain keep and the inhabitants of its forest, coming right up! <.<

Chapter 32

Notes:

Hellooooo, it is that time again!
I am a liiiittol insecure in the writing right now, sorry if this is taking longer than I hoped! Here is the next installment towards the finish line!
Thank you all for your support and for staying with me!
Oh and Thank you a bunch to Madelane who beta read for me! You are a right darling!!
Please enjoy <3

(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)

Chapter Text

They decide to leave the safehouse in the afternoon.

Triss and Yennefer and Jaskier himself are flitting around the house, gathering the horses, hiding evidence. The latter being the hardest one, and the sorceresses tell him there will be a darkness around the spot where they performed the ceremony for a long time to come. They burn all the linens stained with blood, and a lot of books, a lot more than he thought were in this house.

 

“Popped into Basia’s keep this morning,” Yennefer tells him when he asks. “The flames didn’t reach her tower, or they were protected by spells.”

 

She throws another one into the little fire pit they made, embers and ashes rising with a crackle as it feeds on the pages.


Jaskier steels himself, grabs a book, and tosses it in.

It’s a small thing, but his palms are clammy when he leans back again, and his chest is heaving. Rage is hot on his tongue, hot and toxic, but he is not sure why.

 

Yennefer eyes him thoughtfully, then she takes his hand and leads him out into the garden.

She hands him an axe and points him to the table that has yet to burn.

 

“Chop it up. It’s too big for the fire pit.”

 

Jaskier knows what she is doing, and he appreciates it.

It is the last place you were connected to her.
To Basia. It's his to destroy.

 

His heart is beating fast and his blood is burning with pent up emotions.

He grabs the axe; he doesn’t see if Yennefer leaves or stays, but it matters little. With a cry, he brings it down on the table, swinging it in a wild arc over his head.

 

It connects with a thunk, but the table is sturdy. There is a crack, yes, but the wood is thick and relentless. He brings the axe up again, the impact makes his shoulders and elbows ache, but he doesn’t hesitate to swing again.
And again.

Jaskier realizes he is screaming. When the table finally collapses on itself, he kicks it to flip it into position. It hurts, his shoes are not padded enough for it not to, but he kicks again.
It is hard to see, sweat and tears making his vision blurry, his hair sticking to his face, his tunic plastered against his back.

In his mind, the axe is destroying the threads that connected him to her. He imagines it sounds like when a lute string snaps. Imagines how it would sting when the string hits her.

 

When he regains his senses, he is panting heavily, his hands are full of blisters, and the table is reduced to wood chips. Jaskier lets go of the axe, letting it slip through his aching fingers to rest among his destruction.

He flops down heavily on the ground, his limbs numb and his breath coming short.

 

“Fuck,” he manages, his tongue dry, and he wipes his forehead with his sleeve.

 

This is not how he expected his day to go. The blisters are not too bad, but it’s going to suck to play for a while. The soreness in his arms, however, is already making itself known, and every movement feels heavy.

 

“You done? Oh, look at that, little bard, didn’t know you had it in you,” Yennefer appears in the doorway, another stack of books piled in her arms.

 

Still catching his breath, Jaskier doesn’t reply, just laying down on his back in the grass and resting.

In poetry he would have described himself as feeling lighter after the outburst, like a heavy burden had been shed. He doesn’t. He just feels numb and tired and raw.
The sorceress says nothing either, but he hears her steps leave and come back, and then she is next to him on the ground.

 

“May I look at those hands?” she asks him, and Jaskier has to smile. Trust Yennefer to burn a keep down and still respect his boundaries.

 

Stretching out the hand closest to her, Jaskier finally turns to look at her.
It would seem she brought linen and water, a glass already poured up for him. There is a lump in his throat but he is so *tired* of crying.

 

“It’s not fair,” Jaskier whispers, fingers twitching when Yennefer grabs his hand.

 

“It’s not,” she agrees, dabbing his hand with a cool cloth. It stings, so she probably brought stronger stuff than water too.

 

“Will she ever leave me?” Jaskier wonders. “Will I ever stop being scared?”

 

For a moment, there is only silence as Yennefer works.

 

“Don’t burst your blisters. They heal better if you leave them be,” she informs him, and Jaskier ponders if she means only the blisters, or his emotions too. He is not sure it’s a good thing to ignore them, but maybe forcing it isn’t the way to go.

 

“She might not ever leave you,” Yennefer says suddenly, disrupting Jaskier’s pondering. “Some old pains never let go of you. She might be gone for years, and show up when you think she is nothing but a faded memory. She was a cruel woman, Jaskier, and she did very cruel things to you. Anger is normal. Guilt too, despite that your only crime was surviving when others didn’t.”

 

Jaskier looks away, and Yennefer lays her hand on top of his reassuringly. It’s hard to swallow down everything that is building, the lump in his throat ever growing. Her hands are gentle and warm, smearing some kind of ointment over his palm.

 

“But you are never alone with her. You have me, and you have Geralt, and whoever else you want to be a part of your life. We will cut her out as many times as we need to, if that is what you want.”

 

Yennefer squeezes his hands, then stands up.

 

“Wash your other hand and put the ointment on. We leave as soon as the fire is out. There is no need to linger,” she says, and then leaves him with the glass of water and his thoughts.

 

It’s strange. She is a strange woman, Yennefer of Vengerberg. She has her own way of caring, and Jaskier is still trying to figure her out.
It feels better, though. Her bluntness puts him at ease, somehow.

 

Jaskier finally sits up with a heaving sigh, looking around. It takes him another few minutes to muster up enough energy to deal with his other hand, and then finally carry the splintered remains of the table to the fire pit.

 

Yennefer nods approvingly as he feeds the wood chips to the flames. Eventually Eskel defies his bedrest and comes out to help, carrying what he can with a splinted hand.
The smoke doesn’t smell normal; something in the fumes reminds him of sulfur and bad things.

 

 

 

At long last, the fire is out, the house cleansed of their presence.

Jaskier stands with their horses, Wilk flicking his tail and stomping nervously as Yennefer opens a portal. Understandable, Jaskier doesn’t have good memories from their last portal either. The air vibrates with the chaos, fueled by something in the ground. Trust the Lodge to make their safehouse where the magic is strong.

He’s never been to Kaer Morhen. He only knows what Geralt has told him, and what few tales has been passed down in the university. Which frankly is doing everybody involved a disservice.

 

“It’s a long way to the Blue Mountains,” She says grimly, sweat forming on her brow already. “I need you all to get through quickly.”

 

Easier said than done, with two horses, a bard and two broken witchers. Thankfully, Eskel is strong like a fucking ox, and he carries Geralt through. Both of them look pale and their jaws are clenched, but there is no better option. Triss and Jaskier leads the horses through, they are stepping nervously and rolling their eyes, not at all pleased with the swirling chaos and the unfamiliar smells from the other side.

Eventually Triss swats Wilk on the rear, which gets him moving just enough to step through and out of the way until he starts shying away again. Not wanting to be left alone, Roach is quick to follow, pulling at her reins.

Another few seconds, and then Yennefer is through as well, and the portal closes in on itself.

 

“I hate portals,” Geralt grumbles from Eskel’s arms, and Yennefer rolls her eyes.

 

“You are right. I should have let you cross the continent with a demolished knee to spare your feelings,” Yennefer snarks, and Jaskier smiles.

 

It is colder here, the wind harsher, grabbing at his coat. There is a timelessness to pine and fir trees,the way they are unchanged by the seasons, the way the trees stand tall, moss softening steps and climbing branches. The smell of the forest is strong, but in a good way.

 

They debate for a moment, trying to decide on how Geralt can travel without upsetting his knee. It is unsustainable for Eksel to carry him, and riding would bend and move it.

They finally settle on Triss riding on ahead. She knows the way, knows what to avoid to get to the keep safely, and will return with the supply wagon.

None of them trusts Roach away from Geralt’s side, she is still snorting and stomping, agitated. Wilk is not happy to leave the group, but he is kicked into action, much swifter than Jaskier ever managed.

Roach neighs after him; Jaskier has never known her to be this attached to anyone but Geralt, but he agrees. As beautiful as the forest is, he would not want to be left behind. Jaskier does his best to calm her, but Geralt has to be carried closer and he talks to her softly and pets her forehead.

It’s sweet, the bond they have, and she slowly relaxes. Jaskier has rarely seen him use signs on her, their trust for each other being enough most of the time.

 

“Where are we, exactly?” Jaskier asks, as Eskel leads them slowly onward, with Geralt still in his grip.

 

“I can’t portal all the way to the keep, so I took us as far as I could. We should be nearby the great lake.”

 

“We are,” Geralt agrees, face pale and jaw clenched in pain. “You threw me in the lake once, when you were in one of your moods. Took me a few hours to get back.”

 

Yennefer smiles at the memory, smug like a cat.

 

“Oh yes, I did. You smelled terrible with all that wet armor.”

 

“We should find the wider path up ahead,” Eskel says. “If we follow it, the should meet Triss with the carriage eventually.”

 

It is not that far to the wider path, it turns out. After barely half an hour’s walk, the ground evens out, underbrush of Lingonberries and ferns giving way to a path that looks like it hasn’t been in use for decades.
Which makes sense, Jaskier supposes.

 

“It’s bespelled,” Eskel explains when Jaskier looks around. “For us, it will be visible. For those who are looking for the keep on their own without invitation, they will get turned around as soon as they try to walk it, forgetting it was here all together.”

 

“It’s very clever,” Yennefer agrees. “Good for unwanted visitors.”

 

They follow the wheel tracks for a while, Roach now visibly eager, knowing how close to home she is. The rest of them lack her stamina, and they decide to rest by the roadside. Eskel sets the other witcher down against a tree, and Yennefer looks over his injuries.

There is a wistful sort of silence in the forest, Jaskier listens to it as he sits down next to Geralt.

 

“How are you feeling?” Jaskier asks, smiling when Geralt shifts to lean against his arm.

 

“Like shit turned over,” Geralt says. “I’m sorry I didn’t listen to you about the potions. Pain never was good for my decision making.”

 

Jaskier leans his head against Geralt’s shoulder, smiling when Geralt leans his head against his. The knife wound in his chest itches just a little bit, and he scratches at it absently. He is not too worried about it bleeding anymore.

 

“I’m sorry, too,” Jaskier murmurs. “What a state we are in, huh?”

 

Instead of replying, Geralt reaches for his hand. Jaskier can only watch, holding his breath as Geralt’s fingers slide against Jaskier’s palm slowly, and all the way up to twine their fingers together.

 

It makes his heart ache and flutter, and he shifts his thumb so he can stroke it up and down along Geralt’s hand. He hates it a little bit, hates that it took them breaking so thoroughly to get here.
The witcher is warm against his side, despite his hands being pale and cold.

 

They sit there long enough for Jaskier to fall asleep.

 

When he wakes up, it is to the sound of hoofbeats, and the creaking of a wagon.

Upon opening his eyes, he realizes the sun is hanging low, long shadows stretch along the trees, ferns curling in on themselves and a fine mist hovering above the greenery like a veil.

Suddenly the forest doesn’t seem all that friendly anymore, and without thinking he inches closer to Geralt, who still hasn’t let go of him.

There is an older man driving the wagon, a thick mustache and heavy eyebrows, holding in an unfamiliar horse. Behind him is Triss on Pegasus, a cloak now thrown over her shoulders.

The older man looks around, taking note of the scene. Eskel is stood nearby, his arm in a sling and eyes watchful of the forest. Yennefer is nowhere to be seen.

 

“What have you gotten into this time, boys?” the older man says gruffly, securing the reins and climbing down, surprisingly agile.

 

He looks well above the age of Jaskier’s grandfather, he thinks, then blinks. Oh. Oh of course, this is another witcher.

 

“Vesemir,” Geralt greets, and suddenly Jaskier is very, very awake.

 

Vesemir. The Vesemir, as in, head of the school of the Wolf.

He can’t help the uptick of his heartbeat, and then Vesemir’s eyes are on him.

 

“The famous bard, I suppose,” Vesemir says, no doubt taking stock of Jaskier’s shabby and beat up self, still holding Geralt’s hand.

 

“Jaskier,” he says, despite himself. “Ah. Julian Alfred Pankratz de Lettenhove, at your service.” It doesn’t quite have the same effect when sitting down, or hunkering behind a wounded witcher, but still. The older witcher’s eyebrows tick up, but when his gaze shifts to Geralt, it’s like a weight has lifted off his chest.

 

“What happened to your leg?” Vesemir asks, kneeling down.

 

“Crushed. Healing badly,” Geralt replies.

 

“So Miss Marigold told me. This is no place to deal with it though.” The older witcher rises, and claps Eskel on the uninjured arm, before turning back to the wagon. Eskel follows him, and Triss keeps looking around worriedly.

 

“Where is Yenna?” she asks, but none of the witchers reply. “Yenna!”

 

Her voice carries along the trees, and Jaskier doesn’t like it, not at all.

 

Then all three witcher’s heads whip to the side, towards the forest.

It is eerily quiet, quiet enough for Jaskier to pick up on the faint hum of the medallion on Geralt’s chest.

 

“We need to go,” Eskel says, stooping to pick up Geralt. There really is no good way to pick him up that won’t be hell on Geralt’s leg, but he doesn’t scream. His hand slip out of Jaskier’s grip, and Jaskier takes it as his cue to stand up too.

 

Above them, flapping wings close in, a black bird being chased by a murder of crows.

 

It dives down towards them, and Vesemir pulls his sword from the back of the wagon.

The back bird aim towards Triss, who dodges just a smidgen too late.

 

Run,” the black bird says with Yennefer’s voice, before it slams into the Quen shield Vesemir throws between it and the sorceress.

 

Then the birds are upon them.

Notes:

YOU THOUGHT THINGS WERE CALMING DOWN! I LIED!
I am almost sorry

Chapter 33

Notes:

(See the end of the chapter for notes.)

Chapter Text

Yennefer has been in the woods surrounding Kaer Morhen before.

She is no stranger to the grounds, but the forest is older than the keep and the witchers themselves, and she feels something is out there.

She only means to scout ahead, to ensure their safety, but too late she realizes her error. The air is thick as a summer day, despite it being cold enough to pinken her nose, and the shadows deep and reaching.

The tree tops too are dark with shadows. It takes her a moment to realize it is in fact not a trick of the light, but birds. Dozen upon dozens of birds, with beady black eyes, watching her. She does not possess Geralt’s knowledge of beasts, but she knows this is not natural. Unsure what is the correct move, she looks around, as slowly as she can muster.

Letting her chaos trickle from her, tendrils search for what is connected to this place. Around her finger, she can sense Jaskier’s pulse, still calm, still safe.
Further than she anticipates, her chaos makes contact with something. Instantly, Yennefer pulls back, but it’s too late.

Somewhere in the far distance, wood groans, as if bending against hard wind. All at once, the birds start cawing, flapping their wings, agitated by something she can’t see.

“Shit,” she whispers under her breath, turning on her heel to run back the way she came.

Only, there is now a fine mist over the ground, smoothing out divots and roots, making her stumble and slow the pace.

Too late, she realizes she doesn’t know where the tracks are, how to get back. Whatever is chasing her is clearly affecting the spell to hide the road, blocking it for her as well.
The birds go silent, and instead she hears them take flight, all at once. Their wings beat against the air, and she realizes they soon will be upon her.

Yennefer conjures a bird of her own, a raven with strong black wings.

“Run,” She whispers to it, and sends it off. Hopefully it can make it to Triss.Hopefully it will trick the crows, and allow her to hide from a threat worse than beaks and talons.

 

~

Jaskier doesn’t know what to do. One moment, there is nothing, the next, the sky is dark with feathers. How can there be so many?
Someone calls his name, he thinks it’s Geralt, and he throws his arms over his head and runs towards the wagon.

Sudden heat stings his cheek and a flame arches around them as Vesemir signs Igni to stave off the attack. It gives Jaskier the chance to grab a hold of Roach, throwing her reins over her neck instead of around the branch, and lets her do her thing. There’s no way he will be able to get on her and stay in the saddle. She is a witcher horse, she knows what to do, and Jaskier clearly does not.

“YENNA!” Triss yells again, but the only reply is harsh cawing and more wings. Pegasus is restless under her, and she does her best to keep him calm.

“Take the lead, miss Merigold!” Vesemir shouts, sending out another Quen her way, even as a talon swipes at his own head.

Thankfully she listens, turning Pegasus around and rushing back the way they came. The horse in front of the wagon is throwing his head up, eyes rolling, and it is only a matter of time before it turns to run as well.
Jaskier notices Geralt has been placed in the back, and makes a beeline to join him. Good thing too, because Eskel is climbing up in the front, taking a hold of the reins.

“Leshen,” Eskel says. “An old one.”

“I know. Get us moving,” Vesemir says, helping Jaskier climb up next to Geralt, the wagon dipping with their weight.

Geralt is pale, a sheen of sweat on his brow. He looks like he has passed out, and with no better idea coming to mind, Jaskier kneels over him, using his body to shield Geralt best he can. Claws scratch at his back as they fly past, making him flinch and clench his eyes closed.

The wagon jolts into motion, rocking side to side as the wheels move over the overgrown tracks. Geralt groans in pain when his leg is banging against the side, but there is nothing he can do to help, not without making it worse. Another blast of heat staves the birds off for a few seconds, the stench of singed feathers making Jaskier nauseous. Lithe bodies falls around them, sickening little thuds when they land on the floor of the wagon.
Then nothing.

When Jaskier looks up, he notices a golden shimmer, separating them from the crazed animals on the other side.

“The trail will take care of them soon enough,” Vesemir assures him, picking up and tossing a dead bird over the side. “Or the Leshen will call them back, when it can’t get to us anymore. We will be okay.”

A small cut on the older witcher’s forehead is bleeding, trickling down onto his bushy eyebrow. Vesemir doesn’t seem to notice, nor care, as he sits back against the side of the wagon, signing Quen again.

“Wherever Yennefer is, she better be good at hiding,” Vesemir mutters.

~

The birds pass her by, following her conjured raven. Her relief is short lived, however, when something disturbs the mist, the woods around her groaning.

Yennefer is under no illusion that she can fight this, not alone and not after portaling so far. She traces in the air, thinking the incantation as forcefully as she can. She is strong enough for that, at least, not needing to say them out loud anymore, and a copy of herself dashes away like a startled deer. She watches her copy stumble, support herself against a tree, and then keep running.
She continues tracing in the air, and another of her sprouts forth.

It is but an illusion, but solid enough that the mist parts around it, and it dashes in another direction.
Yennefer doesn’t move. She traces a third time, but this time to hide her presence. She disguises herself as a tree, bark surrounding her like a cocoon, a shield between her and the forest.

She can only hope it’s enough.

Out of the corner of her eye, she sees her second illusion trip and fall. Roots and vines come up from the mist, wrapping around the illusion’s form and pulling her to the ground.

The illusion makes a sound when the vines tighten. Hearing her own voice make that sound, fragile, wet and broken, send shivers down Yennefer’s spine.
Inside her tree, it is too narrow to make any movements, any more spells. Even if she could, she realizes it is too late. In the distance, she sees a form growing out of the ground, antlers and long limbs, and a pale, cracked deer skull on its head.

It walks forward, towards her illusory self. It throws out what could be a hand, and roots like claws pierce the illusion, and it dissipates.
For a beat nothing happens, then rage, like a physical thing, spreads through the forest. The pines and the fir trees stand firm, do not bend, do not waver, but the mist swirls into little whirlpools.

Her distraction costs her. The leshen is gone, but the rage remains.

This will be a long night.

~

Jaskier remains on top of Geralt, hoping to keep him stable as the carriage jumps and jolts on their wild flight. It might be strange, but Jaskier really hopes the witcher remains blissfully unconscious for the ride. He can’t imagine the pain he must be in with every stick and stone they go bouncing over.

The birds are gone now, but they haven’t slowed their desperate retreat by much. The horse pulling he wagon is switching between galloping and trotting, and Roach follows nearby with easy familiarity. Ahead of them, Triss has slowed enough for them to catch up and is looking around with a frown.

None of them speak.

When Eskel finally pulls back on the reins, Jaskier releases a breath he didn’t realize he was holding.

“We should be out of its territory now,” Eskel says, turning back to look at the three of them. Vesemir nods, and looks out into the forest.

“It’s getting bolder. This woodland spirit is ancient, tied to the old world. Kept our borders safe from nosy people, but something must have changed.”

Jaskier has no reply to that, shivering with cold and adrenaline leaving his body. With great care and effort, and some help from Vesemir, Jaskier climbs off Geralt without kicking him. Together they support Geralt’s leg with the spare cloaks that Vesemir brought. Geralt groans when his leg is adjusted, but doesn’t wake; he looks sickly pale and is still covered in a sheen of sweat.

“I’m sorry my boy,” Vesemir says quietly, lifting a hand toward Geralt and making a sign. “Rest deeply, don’t feel the pain.”

Jaskier isn’t very familiar with this one, but Geralt’s face relaxes.

“Will that work?” he asks nervously.

“It’s Axii, and it should. We still have an hour or so to go, and we still have to fix that leg,” Vesemir says. His voice is tired, and his sword lies where he simply dropped it. With a sigh, Vesemir sits back, leaning back against the driver’s seat.

“Are we safe now?” Jaskier asks, because his heart is beating too fast and his hands are sweating and he is so fucking tired of being scared and useless.

The forest gets darker every minute and the silence out there is not doing great things to his imagination. The forest always quiets before a monster runs at them, he’s learned.

“As safe as we can be, at the moment. The road keeps us unseen, as long as we move.”

“Yennefer knows the way, she will come to us when she can,” Eskel pipes up from where he sits, speaking to Triss, who has yet to say a word.

“I know. She is stronger than anyone I know,” Triss says quietly. “I just feel so bereft without my magic. I can’t sense her.”

Jaskier realizes he can. The thread connecting them is still there, and he realizes that maybe not all of the fear he is sensing is his own.

“She is alive, Triss,” he says. “Our bond is still there. As long as I’m moving, you know that she is too.”

Triss turns her head and smiles at him, a real smile.

Yeah, as long as Jaskier doesn’t drop dead, they will know she is still out there.

Notes:

Man I love Leshens. So friggin cool. I wish I could get my paws on that figurine, but eh!

Never a calm day for this gang, and I'm almost sorry about that :)

Chapter 34

Notes:

Hello darlings!!
Happy belated holdays!
It didn't feel very proper to post an update on this dark angsty thing whilst the actual holiday was going on, so i let it rest another day or so (we celebrated the 24th, I was sooooo patient).

It is strange that we are closing in on the end. It's weird. This has been a part of my writing journey for so long that finishing it scares me a little.
Thank you all for reading and following me and the gang on this journey. You are bringing so much joy into my life.
Thank you MagdelaneSingerin for betareading, it is so valuable to have a second pair of eyes!

Enjoy! <3

Chapter Text

When they close in on Kaer Morhen, they have only the moon and the stars to light their way. For a moment, Jaskier thought he saw whisps of light along the trees, but Vesemir had sternly told him to keep his eyes on the road, which was getting ever steeper.

Jaskier dozes off again, curling as close to Geralt as he can without touching him. He is abruptly woken when the wagon hits a hole.

Looking up, the skies are dark, speckled with stars. They are familiar and unfamiliar, their places in the sky different this far north.. It is even colder now, so Jaskier reaches for another of the cloaks in the wagon, draping it over him and Geralt both.

Vesemir seems to be meditating, and Eskel is humming something under his breath. It feels… peaceful, at last. Carefully, Jaskier reaches for Geralt’s unresponsive hand, holding it to reassure himself that Geralt is still here, still alive.

They pass by an old guard tower, stones littered around the ground as if something exploded.

“Almost there,” Eskel murmurs, almost to himself, and keeps humming. He has a good voice, deep and clear.

Eskel is right. The road is twisting and turning, but it doesn’t take long for Jaskier to spot the dark keep in the distance. Most of it is but a silhouette, but an outer wall has torches lit, to mark the entrance.

It is not as tall as Jaskier imagined it would be, but it is too dark to see if it is by design or the ravages of time. The gate is opened from inside as they approach, the portcullis already most of the way up, probably because they were expected to return.

“Merigold,” a man in the doorway greets, or sneers rather. Triss juts out her chin and reins in Pegasus, looking down her nose at the man at the gate.

“Manchild,” she says cooly in response, and Eskel snorts from his spot in the wagon. The sound catches the other man’s attention, and in a heartbeat Eskel has jumped down and spread his arms wide to receive the hug that suddenly is launched at him.

Jaskier catches Vesemir’s smile as he moves to take Eskel’s place at the driver's seat.

“You fucking ass, I thought you died,” the man says finally, clapping Eskel hard on the back, the way you would when trying to cover up something too heartfelt.

“Missed me, Lambert?” Eskel teases, stepping aside to let the wagon get through the gates without getting run over.

Lambert, yeah that would make sense. This is the brother he has yet to meet. From what he knows of Lambert, it makes sense when their eyes meet as the wagon rolls inside the gate and Lambert splutters angrily.

“Who the fuck is that? I thought you were going to bring home Pretty Boy?”

“We are,” Vesemir says over his shoulder. “Go get the stretcher.”

Lambert’s entire face pinches, and he scurries away.
Meanwhile, Eskel latches up the door behind them, but lets the portcullis remain up. Next to Jaskier, Geralt is still unconscious, his hand still clasped in Jaskier’s.

They should finally be safe now. As soon as Yennefer returns, they will all be safe.

 

---

 

The small whirlpools in the mist are still swirling. The air still tastes like rage, but dim, the way you would smell smoke from a distance. Yennefer weighs her options.

She can stay where she is, but there is no telling if the Leshen might find her again if she moves. Or, she can attempt to portal away. Portals always came easy for her, even before she realized what they were.

Now that she is actually in the Blue Mountains, it should take much less power to reach Kaer Morhen.
It’s a gamble.

The sun sets as she waits, the stars showing here and there through the thick canopy of trees above. Time passes slowly, and the forest settles around her.

When she spots the moon, she decides it’s time.

Disspelling the fake tree around her is like awakening everything anew, like the whole forest was just waiting. It’s like she stepped on a spider’s thread; the web is trembling, and the spider is coming.

She rips open a portal, the mist rising in swirling stalagmites, and steps through without waiting. The ominous cawing of crows follows her until she closes the portal behind her and it abruptly falls silent.

 

Stepping into the main hall of the keep, three sets of yellow eyes are immediately on her. Vesemir, Lambert, and Eskel, sitting at one of the long tables with the remains of a late dinner around them.

“Good of you to join us,” Lambert snarks, while the other two nod more politely.

“I see you have yet to grow up,” she snarks back, and talks over whatever retort Lambert attempts. “Everybody here safely?”

“Yes. Geralt is upstairs, Axii’d asleep. Thought it best to keep him under til we decided how to proceed,” Vesemir says, lifting an battered tankard to his lips. Yennefer has never understood how his mustache remains that clean, when he clearly dips it in beverages and dinners alike.

“Jaskier is with him, and Triss. Fussing around to keep busy, I suspect,” Eskel adds.

“Why do you keep an ancient Leshen in your backyard? Isn’t that an odd choice of pet?” She questions, looking up towards the stairs. She made Triss worried.

“It has its uses. Keeps intruders and civilians at bay. It would take all of us to take it down, and it would probably anger the folks at the edge of the woods. They decided it's their God,” Vesemir informs her.

“It’s annoying, that’s what it is,” Lambert grumbles and Eskel smirks.

“I don’t know, I kind of like being able to study it, when it’s not in a mood. Let me know if you would be up for some Leshen sightseeing,” Eskel offers her, and it’s Yennefer’s turn to smirk.

“Is this your way of asking me to be your escape route?” Yennefer asks.

“Maybe,” Eskel admits. “Don’t tell me you are not curious how those totems work!”

She is, and maybe there will be time for it in the future.

“Try to heal up before you go out risking your neck again,” she says instead. “Without your signs, you’ll be an easy target, don’t you think?”

Both Lambert’s and Vesemir’s head whip around to him, and Eskel looks a bit guilty.

“Ah, yeah. I thought I’d fill you in when everybody is together.”

 

Yennefer leaves them to argue and goes upstairs.

The past is etched into every stone, into every door. Worn down steps and wood polished smooth from all the hands pushing them open. There is something lonely about it, especially now, when it stands empty waiting for the season to turn cold and for the few remaining witchers to return home.

She finds the room they are in easily, opening herself to sense Jaskier. She can hear them murmuring inside, moving about.
Pushing the door open, her eyes are immediately drawn to Triss. They don’t need words; just seeing each other makes something loosen inside her.

“Yennefer,” Jaskier says, smiling faintly from the footstool where he sits holding on to one of Geralt’s hands. “See, I told you. As long as I move, she is alright.”

Ah.
She had forgotten about that.

“I am indeed,” she says, striding into the room. “How is our White Wolf, though? Out like a light?”

Jaskier sobers and looks at Triss.

“Vesemir thought it best. Even if the wagon was our best option, it was bad.” Triss confirms. “Lambert showed me the laboratory, so I can put something useful together. Healing this will not be pretty.”

 

With some convincing, Jaskier follows them back down to the main hall, joining the witchers of Kaer Morhen to finally recount their tale.
When Jaskier sits down next to Eskel, Lambert’s shoulders tense.

“What is wrong with him?” he asks no one in particular.

“Rude,” Jaskier mumbles, keeping his eyes on the table in front of him as he makes himself comfortable.

“Dead,” Yennefer says helpfully, reaching for one of the remaining bread buns. “Hand me the cheese, Eskel?”

It strikes Jaskier that he hadn’t actually ever explained that part to Eskel. He looks just as shocked and doubtful as the others.

“Ah, undead, it would seem,” Jaskier says hesitantly, glancing around the table. Sat next to Eskel, he hopes that the other man won’t go all Witcher on him, but he can see Lambert’s hackles rising. “The uh… woman who took Eskel meant to do the same to him. Very unpleasant business.”

Yennefer snorts as she cuts the bread, crumbs spilling carelessly over the table. Triss gives him an encouraging smile and Jaskier realizes that the story is his to tell.

Explaining it without Geralt makes his heart race, and he notices Yennefer’s finger twitching, but she says nothing.
Jaskier opens and closes his mouth a few times, feeling everybody’s eyes on him.

He can’t do it.

It is finally over. He doesn’t want to relive it already.

“Excuse me,” he says, then rises again from the table. Thankfully nobody stops him and Jaskier hurries towards the stairs, doing his best to keep his feet under him.

“What the fuck?” Lambert hisses, but Eskel calms him.

“He’s been through enough,” Jaskier hears the witcher say, and it stings.

When he reaches the top of the staircase, he stops, reins himself in.

From here he can still hear the conversation, but doesn’t need to be a part of it. That should be enough, right?
So he listens from afar as Yennefer, Triss, and Eskel fill in the gaps. A very short version of the story, but it seems to be a complete one.

“There are places of power out in the woods, like the one with the druid,” Vesemir says after a stretch of silence. “When exposed to them, our signs grow stronger. Maybe that can help you recover faster.”

Jaskier imagines how Triss would be nodding in thanks, tracing cold, smooth stone with the tip of his finger.

“What can be done for Geralt?” Eskel asks eventually. “Besides resetting the bones, dulling the pain. Is there actual hope that he might heal?”

The following silence is longer, and very, very telling.

“Time will tell,” Vesemir says finally. “He isn’t the first Witcher to be injured like this, nor will he be the last. There is always work for someone with our knowledge.”

“Even if it kills him?” Lambert asks, voice dripping with venom. “Will you send him to his death?”

“You think me cruel, Lambert?” Vesemir asks, voice calm and dangerous. “You should still remember them, the old meisters, missing entire limbs, and still working their craft their own way. I didn’t fill your head with nonsense, boy.”

“You did that all on your own,” Eskel murmurs, and then grunts when Lambert hits him. “A crutch can be used as a staff, if need be. A disability is not the end. Geralt will find a way.”

It's not until he hears the words that he realizes how burdened he's been by this. Slowly, his shoulders sink, his hands unclench, and he lets out a soft breath. Leaning forward, the stone is cool against his forehead and he closes his eyes.

It is not the end.

Geralt will find a way.

Together they will heal from this, and Jaskier will walk every step of the way with him, whatever the pace, whatever the path.

This is not the end.

Notes:

Come shriek at me on Tumblr! Im Dapandapod <3