Chapter Text
She doesn’t recognise him, when she finds him, not like this.
It’s pure luck, or as some would say – destiny, that she finds him after all.
It’s a week after Sodden and memory of the restless energy still burns inside her, she cannot sleep and cannot be still, and yet there’s nowhere for her to go. The concern in Tissaia's eyes makes her skin crawl. So when the rumours reach them, that remains of high class Nilfgaard officers are still in the hiding, she pretends to give a shit and leaves, looking, like the rest of them.
Ten minutes after she steps through the portal she finds abandoned camp, and she finds Jaskier, and doesn’t recognise him.
She sees a man lying at the edge of the clearing and her powers tell her that he’s alive, though he really doesn’t look it. She turns him on his back with her foot and he makes no sound except for a barely audible wheeze. He looks like a corpse, cold, limp and bloody. His hands and feet are bound.
She spends a good minute contemplating, if she should just put him out of his misery. It seems like he is most likely to die even if she makes her best effort, and there’s no knowing how much he actually can tell her before his last breath.
She kneels beside the body and presses her hand on the man's bloody forehead, forcing his conscious to snap back in. It’s cruel and effective.
“Do you hear me?” she calls.
He slowly opens his eyes – splashes of bright blue on the bloody mess of his face. Focuses on her face and just... stares.
“Can you hear me?” she repeats impatiently.
His chapped lips twitch and his mouth curls to a lopsided half smile – the sound his throat makes is something vaguely resembling laughter. His eyes are wide and frantic.
This is hopeless, Yennefer thinks.
She notices something familiar in the curve of his mouth just before she turns away. Begging Melitele, destiny, and all the other fuckers for it not to be true, she moves closer to a dying man and looks at his face. His eyes are unfocused — that last glimpse of consciousness stole his last strength. His nose is broken and face is covered with a layer of old blood, but now she sees his bright blue eyes, sees the echo of the familiar features in his gaunt face.
“Jaskier,” she calls, and he closes his eyes.
***
It is funny, she thinks, as she makes the fire. How it was with Geralt — she thinks, cutting the ropes around Jaskier’s wrists — it started with the unconscious bard and now it has ended with the same damn bard falling on her hands. It’s fucking hilarious, she thinks, as she drags him from the dirt onto her cloak near the fire. She doesn’t use magic — he’s light as a feather.
It is a Geralt thing, she tells herself. It is a Geralt’s bard, annoying and sometimes simply infuriating, but he likes him, and he won’t forgive her if he ever finds that she let Jaskier die.
She thinks briefly about taking him back through the portal but dismisses that idea — he’s too weak to survive it. She goes back alone, gathers supplies and some food under Tissaia’s gaze burning a hole in her back. She barely meets her eyes, tells her “I have to deal with something”, and slips through the portal before she has a chance to ask.
«Something» doesn’t seem to move, since she left him. She furrows, feeling a small spark of life trembling inside him, feeble and unsteady. If she wants the bard to live she needs to be fast.
Yennefer crouches beside him and cuts through his rugged shirt, assessing the damage. It is bad — he's covered in bruises and cuts, old and new, half healed and bleeding. Burn marks on his arm and face. Neck painted in black and blue. Fingers broken. On top of all, he’s starved to his bones.
Whoever did it wasn’t trying to kill him, not really. Not a single one of his injuries is dangerous on its own. All of them planned, calculated. Deep and serious enough to cause pain, not severe enough to be fatal. Torture – her mind supplies, cold and practical, while uneasy shiver runs down her spine. She has seen worse (hell, she has done worse), – of course she has, but it is not a monster or creature or cunning spy threatening the kingdom, it is a little human bard who jumped around Geralt, sang, and looked amusingly disgruntled near her.
It’s just a Geralt thing — she tells herself, washing bard’s wounds with wet cloth and covering them with salve.
When she’s sure he won’t die at any given moment, she’ll drag his miserable ass to the Witcher and will be done. With the bard, with Geralt, with everything. The look on Geralt’s face will be something, she thinks absently, finishing with bandages and eyeing the bruise on the bard's neck. That one is particularly bad, fresh and swollen.
Almost like the last time.
Yennefer wonders if this time he’ll be able to talk after. Well, Geralt always complained anyway.
Now comes the hard part. She touches his temples and closes her eyes. Spell is complex and should be precisely balanced, so she works slowly, tuning the bard’s body into healing, circling the currents around worst injuries, the way the body won’t drain itself over. She can see it now, feel it, from the inside, all the damage, all the broken bones and bruises. The crushed cartilage in Jaskier’s throat. There’s no spell able to piece it all back together and mend right away, all she can do now is to show the body the right way to heal itself.
So she does. After a second of hesitation Yennefer also pours some of her own energy into him. She has still not gained her full strength, but the bard will be dead by the night, with his own life force almost out. Now as she has seen inside, Yennefer is surprised he is alive after all, because there’s no life, no strength left in Jaskier bones, no warmth in his blood, all of it gone out, only his heart still beating somehow, weak and unsteady.
She makes sure the fire will hold on and lies down on the other side of it, completely exhausted.
***
Yennefer wakes up in the darkness to flames dancing around her, bursting and slipping in her veins. It tugs her in and beckons with a choir of voices – a feeling painfully familiar. It scares the shit out of her. She closes her eyes again and breathes until it fades, until there’s no flames, only a small fire, barely alive, and a broken bard curled near it.
She doesn’t want to think about it but her mind does it anyway, sharpened over the years – decades, on situations like this. Why would Nilfgaard want Jaskier? Did they get him by mere chance, deciding that some moronic bard with loose tongue will tell them everything they need – and what do they need?
Or they actually wanted that particular bard.
Yennefer realises, that actually, despite Jaskier’s constant chatter she never heard from him a single word revealing who he really was besides a slutty bard stuck to Geralt’s side. He could have been anyone, anyone very valuable to Nilfgaard. Or, Yennefer thinks smirking, he could have simply fucked the wrong person. But above it all there’s a constant nagging sensation she has, a gut feeling, that even if there was more to Jaskier, it didn’t matter at all. She heard rumors of Geralt’s misadventure with queen Calanthe and has put it more or less together after his slip about the destiny child. Whatever happened there, Geralt had ties with Cintra. Jaskier was the Witcher’s bard – and that probably all it took for him to be found and captured, and it was what almost got him killed.
She and Jaskier haven’t really become friends, over the years, and they weren’t enemies either. They’d bicker and Yennefer would roll her eyes and make empty threats and Jaskier just wouldn’t ever shut up. Sometimes, just sometimes, they would share a look, a hidden smirk, when Geralt was… well being Geralt.
She also didn’t even notice it at first, and then later, as they kept meeting, was never completely sure, – the way Jaskier’s eyes flickered, the way he stole glances of Geralt, while singing and prancing around some tavern, the way he looked at Yennefer - heavy and raw, moments before he’d put on his cocky face. Yet she was never sure, not until she and Geralt were done and weeks later she heard some other bard sing that song. The Witcher bard’s new piece, they said. Then she is finally sure.
Don’t worry, bardling, she thought bitterly then, – he’s all yours.
She moves to Jaskier’s side, and with surprising relief finds that he no longer resembles a lifeless corpse. His breathing is loud and ragged, eyes moving under eyelids, arms wrapped around himself. She touches his cheek with the back of her hand and it’s warm and sticky.
It’s just a Geralt thing, she thinks, looking at blood smeared across her hand. She pulls out a piece of cloth, pours water on it and carefully wipes the bard’s face clean from sweat, blood, and dirt. Without it, in the dim light of fire she finally sees his face clearly. It’s all sharp lines and edges, not soft and round as she remembers it. Sunken eyes and hollow cheeks. She remembers how his face would light up, how he’d smile at Geralt – sunshine and warmth – and cannot find it there anymore.
He’s so young, she thinks, almost bitterly, before she can catch herself.
***
She dozes on and off the rest of the night, as Jaskier’s sleep becomes more and more restless. He shifts and shudders and whispers things in raspy breaths, things Yennefer doesn’t want to know.
He wakes up when morning slowly turns into day, and stares into the sky with blank eyes. Yennefer notices and kneels beside him.
«Jaskier,» she calls, trying to keep her voice mild. (It feels strange – that name on her tongue without mockery or anger). «Do you hear me?»
His eyes slowly focus on her and his mouth opens slightly. Its corner twitches and he wheezes, with a horrible wet sound gurgling in his throat, but before it turns into a fit of cough Jaskier looks surprised. His arm flies to his throat.
“What-” he tries again, his voice hoarse and raspy.
“Don’t talk,” Yennefer cuts him off. He looks up, wary and disoriented, but carries on, forcing out something incoherent. It sounds as if a sick animal tried to talk.
“Your throat hasn’t healed,” – hisses Yennefer, familiar annoyance filling her – “If you want to keep your voice – shut up.”
He does, his hand still hovering above bandages on his neck. Then he stops and lifts his hand to his eyes. He lacks strength for it – his arm shakes terribly, and he has to support it with the other one. Yennefer watches as he carefully moves his fingers, one by one, before his eyes.
“I wouldn’t do that either,” she warns him, hauling out the water flask. She adds a few drops of potion in it, feeling Jaskier’s gaze on her back.
“Here,” she holds flask to his lips, lifting his head, pretending she doesn’t notice the way he flinches from her hand nor how his body tenses under the touch. Something tugs in her chest but she pretends she doesn’t notice it either.
“Drink”, she says, and he closes his eyes and drinks, greedily, wincing with every gulp – she feels every shudder through his bony neck.
He doesn’t try to talk again, dizzy and haggard, closing his eyes as soon as his head is lowered on the ground.
He wakes up again in the evening, and she tries to feed him some of the broth. It goes slowly, – Yennefer can tell from his eyes and wet lips how hungry he really is, but every swallow makes his face twist in pain. He tries to hold the bowl at first, but gives up, letting Yennefer hold it for him.
After he doesn’t sleep right away. He watches her hands move over his wounds, watches her walk around their little camp, watches the dark behind the trees and his eyes are wary and tired.
“Rest,” Yennefer tells him. He meets her gaze and holds it for a second – something heavy and unsettling in his look.
“You are safe,” – she wants to tell him. Instead, she makes a fire burn brighter and sits near it.
Jaskier falls asleep after a minute.
***
Yennefer thinks she should be bored out of her mind – she expects it every minute she spends stuck in the middle of that forest, but she is not. Peace was never an option practically appealing to her, she spent years running from it, yet somehow it is there now. She stares into the fire and hears the wind rustling the leaves. The simplicity of it brings memories she thought were gone a long time ago.
She barely thinks of Geralt, even though the constant reminder of him breathes just a few meters away. It feels like a true ending to the whole story, at last. Heal the bard, drop him on Geralt and be free.
The next time she wakes up, she finds Jaskier awake, watching her. He is still pale, but his gaze is clear and more or less sane.
“What is this?” he croaks with visible effort, but it sounds a lot like a human voice. Among all the swirling feelings in her chest that she tries not to notice, Yennefer finds her familiar annoyance and clings to it.
“Would you care to be more specific?” she almost sneers, gets up and waves her hand at the fire, that’s almost died. Sparks fly up and it’s rearing at full strength again. Jaskier’s eyes widen, but he doesn’t move away from it.
“What are you doing?” – he asks once again, voice completely toneless – “Are they gone?”
Yennefer cannot really answer any of those, so she ignores him with a scowl. it feels almost natural.
She gets him to drink and eat something — he looks strong enough, so she pulls him to a sitting position and folds a bedroll behind his back for support while he awkwardly balances a wooden bowl in his broken hands. He coughs and hisses but manages to down it quite quickly in greedy gulps. She takes it from in and offhandedly pulls blankets off his body to examine him. Bard goes very still, while she traces his deepest wounds, now closed and dry. It will take weeks, she thinks, for him to return to a somewhat normal state, but in a few days she can safely drag him through the portal out of here.
“How did you find me?” Jaskier asks suddenly, after she puts blankets over him again.
“I wasn’t looking for you,” - she answers honestly. Jaskier doesn’t look surprised.
“Of course you weren’t,” he whispers. “What are you doing here?”
She tells him about the last days of war and briefly of Sodden, and very vaguely about her role in the whole mess. Jaskier’s face is blank and Yennefer isn't even sure he follows, but she continues anyway.
“We knew there are still remains of the Nilfgaardian army in this area,” she says. “I was looking for it.”
Jaskier licks his lips, his eyes slightly unfocused. “They were here,” he says with an effort. All his words come out with a whistling sound that makes Yennefer’s skin crawl.
“They were going to move. I’m not...” he sucks air through his teeth. “I can’t remember them leaving. I-”
“It doesn’t matter,” - Yennefer stops him. She kneels beside him, noticing bard’s eyes widen warily at her.
“Head up,” she says, and Jaskier obeys, after a moment.
She lifts his chin higher with her fingers, the gesture more gentle than she’d expect from herself, and looks at his neck closely once again. The bright violet and blue seem to have faded, and all mess of crashed cartilage and sinew now look like a normal human throat. She traces his throat with her fingers, using magic to feel it from inside.
“Say something,” she orders, and Jaskier exhales shakily, breathing for the first time since her hands touched his face.
“Have to go. Cat’s on the stove,” he mumbles. There’s something – a shadow, an echo of a person she knows flickering and fading away so quickly she is not sure if it was ever there. Yennefer grants him an insincere smirk as something in her chest stings.
She drops her hands, satisfied with how the healing goes. Jaskier may not sing again with that silky voice of his, but soon he will be able to talk without choking on words.
She needs to give him some potions, so she rummages through her jars and vials, hands working on their own, and her mind someplace else. She hovers over datura leaves, not sure how strong it needs to be.
“Are you in pain?” she asks, without thinking. And then almost clicks her tongue with annoyance at herself. This is an stupid question, but Jaskier doesn’t react to it as it is. He barely reacts at all, eyes hazy and blank. He’s weary.
“I’m cold,” he says in a small voice, as if he didn’t really understand what was asked. Yennefer reaches to feel his forehead for fever, maybe a little too fast, and Jaskier’s head jerks away, his eyes suddenly clear and wide open. Arms half-raised, defending himself. Yennefer bites her lip. Something heavy, angry perhaps, quivers in her stomach as Jaskier exhales and lays down his arms, looking incredibly tired.
It’s just a Geralt thing, she reminds herself.
“Easy,” she says in a low voice, like she would be talking to a wild animal. “Easy,” she says, finally placing her hand on his head in a steady slow movement. He doesn’t flinch but still something twitches in his eyes.
His forehead isn't hot, there's no fever, he’s just still very weak and the night is cold, Yennefer realises, and with a flick of her hand fire is roaring. She wraps her own cloak over the bard's shoulders. He looks at her, and his eyes are foggy once again, his consciousness quickly fading.
“You should rest,” she says, as if it isn’t obvious. “Tell me how strong is the pain and I’ll give you something for it.”
Jaskier blinks. “I don’t know,” he says, words blurry. “It just hurts”.
She makes the potion as strong as she can.
She fears it’s becoming more than just a Geralt thing.