Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Lambert's been looking for Aiden for six months.

Six. Fucking. Months.

He's in Toussaint when a bunch of Nilfgaardian bastards ambush him after a hunt. It's a little uncalled for, but not unheard of. Towns baiting Witchers with hunts and then running them out without pay.

This is a bit much though.

A company of soliders for one man.

Sixty soldiers against one Witcher. Lambert didn't mind those odds.

He gave as good as he got, but they roped and tied him after he stopped fighting. They dragged him halfway down the continent, where he is now, being carried by three of the filthy cocksuckers.

They toss him into a cell. It smells like piss and shit here.

Mouse shit. Maybe human. He can't really tell at the moment with his nose being broken the way that it is.

He's bleeding from more than one place. Every time the company grew too lax in their watching of him, Lambert fought. He smiles through red teeth as the guards lock him up.

"Whoresons!" He shouts, just to egg them on.

The three guards that carried him in don't turn around, leaving him to sit and catch his breath. They're in as bad of shape as he is, worse, actually. At least fifteen of those bastards had to be left on the path, their bodies weren't worth bringing back. He cut down as many as he could, dismembered a handful more before he was disarmed.

But they hadn't taken him down then. Even without his swords, he was dangerous. He struck, kicked, spit, and swore at a good thirty others. The ones unfortunate enough to have gotten too close will wear his marks for the rest of their days.

Oh, Aiden would have been proud. He fought dirty, like his Cat. He gouged eyes and kicked cocks. He bit the fingers off of at least a dozen of them before they had to muzzle him. His hands are bleeding where they broke his fingers.

It took them only a week to realize his hands were as dangerous as a blade on their own.

His hands shake as the adrenaline slowly starts to fade. Lambert leans his back against the wall.

The cell he's in isn't very wide. He could probably walk it, end to end, in three strides flat. And from the bars to the brick at his back extends the length of his wingspan. It's a shithole.

Mice skitter about, leaving droppings and running freely through the bars.

At one glance, he already knows they're demetrium. He'll never be able to break through them. The brick at his back looks dense. It'd take weeks to break through it with his bare hands. And even then, he'd have to wait for them to heal on their own. He'll set them when he finally manages to catch his breath.

Looking out across the hall, the light from a single torch illuminates the bars of another cell.

He fucking hopes Aiden isn't here. That he hadn't gotten caught up in his brother's bullshit.

Fucking princess.

Fucking Nilfgaard.

Lambert scoots forward, as close to the bars as he's willing. He can't see much, not in the dark of this prison.

He thinks he can hear a heartbeat, one too slow for a mouse. Possibly a human?

"Hey, anybody else in here?" Lambert asks, voice raised only so loud.

As much as he likes fighting the guards, he needs time to heal first. He doesn't want to risk bringing them back because of his squawking.

Speaking of squawking-

A figure leans into the bars of the cell across from him and Lambert nearly rolls his eyes.

Of fucking course it's Geralt's bard.

"Shit bard, what'd they round you up for? Singing too loud?"

Jaskier looks at Lambert quietly. Like he's trying to place a name to the face across from him.

Honestly, he doesn't look too good. A human caught up in a prison ran by the dumbest cunt on the continent will do that to you, though.

"Oi, bard, didn't you hear me?"

Jaskier blinks slowly tilting his head, and only then does Lambert notice the collar around his throat.

It isn't leather, or hide of any kind. That looks metal. Forged from something like...like iron?

Maybe they were running low on silver for their stupid fucking army to fit the bard with something proper. Though, iron chains were expected in a prison such as this.

"Were you travelling with Ger-

"NO!" Jaskier shouts, hands clapping over his ears.

His eyes are shut, his whole body is practically turned away from him.

Lambert dares to lean that much closer to his demitrium bars. Jaskier looks like right shit. He's wearing rags of what was probably some foppish outfit that would have undoubtedly burned Lambert's eyes. But his colors look faded. Almost grey.

He looks lifeless without his usual chatter and flittering about.

"Can't do names, please don't say it, otherwise I'll know."

Lambert's frown deepens. Something isn't right.

"Jaskier?" He tries, voice gentle in a way it never is.

The bard is rocking in place, sat down now, with his arms wrapped around his legs.

"They're gonna look inside my head and know. You can't say names. We don't say names."

"But you already know my name."

Jaskier shakes his head. "No, I don't. I gave it away, my kitten took it."

Lambert sits upright too quickly, jarring the broken ribs in his chest, but he doesn't care.

"Kitten? There was a Cat here?"

Jaskier looks up then, still trying to remember Lambert's ugly mug enough to match a name to it.

"My kitten ran off when I accidentally left the door open. Let in a terrible draft. My wolf had to run after him."

Lambert is this close to grabbing the bars, demetrium and broken hands be damned.

Wolf.

Which fucking wolf is he talking about?

"Jaskier, please, I need you to focus."

The bard blinks. "I don't know a Jaskier."

Lambert flinches back then, struck by the knowledge that whatever mage Nilfgaard has did a damn good job of breaking this bard.

"Just- just tell me about your kitten. What did he look like?"

Jaskier smiles, fond of the memory it seems. That smile looks wrong in a place like this though.

"My kitten has brown hair and golden eyes- though, a very mean black bird pecked out his right. I didn't think that was very nice. Tell me, what color are your eyes?"

Lambert is breathing hard. Aiden apparently... escaped? He can't accept anything less than that otherwise he will surely lose his mind. He escaped. And he did so with one fucking eye.

"Yellow." He grits.

Jaskier claps then, seemingly pleased by his answer.

"My wolf told me my eyes were blue. Can you believe that?"

The Witcher is still seething, trying not to lose what little control he has over himself.

"Bard, tell me about the wolf. What's he look like?"

A new smile spreads across Jaskier's face then. Almost bashful in nature, like he's shy to admit it. Lambert has a sinking feeling that Geralt was here already. And if he was here, where the fuck was the princess?

"He's rather dashing, I must admit. Though, he wouldn't agree," Jaskier adds, rolling his eyes. "He's been kissed by Melitele herself, right here, across his face." He gestures to the right side of his face, from his temple to the bolt of his jaw.

"And his hair is a lovely mix of blonde and brown. He lets me pet it whenever I wish." He brags.

That doesn't sound like Geralt.

That sounds like Eskel.

Shit.

"Look Jas-

"That's not my name," the bard pouts.

"It doesn't matter, we've got to-

"My wolf called me lark."

Lambert growls then, control becomming harder and harder to maintain the longer this fucking crazy human prattles on. "You're a fucking pigeon, is what you are, now let me fucking finish."

If Jaskier is upset by Lambert's outburst, he doesn't show it. He merely snickers to himself.

"My kitten said that he had a little lamb as grumpy as you." Jaskier taps his chin then. "I wonder, are you his lost little lamb?"

That settles it then. Aiden was here. Seven hells.

"Look bard, I need you to tell me how he escaped so that I might be able to get us out of this shithole."

Jaskier shakes his head with a soft, dreary sigh.

"The mean black bird told me not to sing anymore."

"You're the fucking bird, bard." He grumbles. He's getting nowhere with this. Jaskier may and well be too far gone to save.

"I'm a lark." He corrects. And Lambert's too tired to keep this up, so he sighs and shakes his head.

"Whatever you say, pigeon."

*      *      *

The next morning, Lambert can fully see what the extent of Jaskier's stay here has done to him. He's grown out his hair, but it's greasy and stuck to his head in some places. There are bags beneath his eyes from lack of sleep. His neck is bruised from the thick collar around his neck, but Lambert doesn't doubt his face looks just as bad from the muzzle they never removed.

He scratches at it now, seemingly remembering it then.

There's a small window above the bard, just enough to shine a slim ray down upon him. Which, he's already laying in, despite not having woken up yet. Perhaps he slept there?

Lambert doesn't know why the bard got a cell with a window and he's left with nothing but three walls and fucking impenetrable bars.

At least...he doesn't know why until the bard opens his eyes.

They're blue alright. But those aren't human, by any means.

The blue practically swallows the whites of his eyes, a sea of color against the drab grey of their dungeon.

In the light of the morning, Lambert can see more than one cell. He doesn't doubt that Jaskier, Aiden, and Eskel were here, together, at one point. His brother and his lover, probably sat right across from each other and hadn't even known it.

Aiden might have known, because Lambert told him about his brothers.

But Eskel? No one in his family knew about Aiden.

The old wolf hated Cats. So, Lambert never brought him up (in conversation or to Kaer Morhen).

He might never see him again.

"Jas-" He starts, but at the bard's furrowed brow, he stops. "Lark," he amends. Which gets him a giant smile from the bard in return. "Are you... human?"

With eyes like those, he can't be. Those hold some serious magic. Like, fae levels of magic.

Which, considering the bard's affinity towards music, and what he's done in changing the public's perception of Witcher's, he fucking might be fae. Jaskier's big eyes seem to grow bigger at the question.

"Don't tell Lamb, promise you won't tell."

Lambert nods. Though, he doubts it matters much. That collar is probably iron for a reason, binding Jaskier's fae magic from anymore escape attempts.

That means they definitely don't have a mage yet. Otherwise, he'd be dead. Ripped apart for his energy, eyes plucked for spells, and that's just what Lambert can think of off the top of his head.

The guards probably made due with what they had.

"Last night, when you said you gave away my name, does that mean you gave away your own?"

Jaskier shrugs, turning to face the sun fully. And now Lambert knows why he's got a window while the Witcher has none. The bard needs it to sustain himself. A fae without sunlight is useless.

He wonders how long he hid his fae nature before the Nilfgaardians found out.

Maybe Eskel has the bard's name. That's why he gave him lark instead.

"Have you given anything else away?" Lambert asks warily.

If he knew that Nilfgaard was looking for him, he probably tossed out anything and everything he knew about Geralt. Which is probably why he's batshit crazy now. He hasn't got a memory. He hasn't got a name.

He's got this window. And Lambert.

"I don't know what you're asking, but I have many friends, all of whom I like to give presents to."

Lambert nods, just as he suspected.

The bard's head is cracked. He took a fucking hammer to it before Nilfgaard could bring in a mage to root around it.

Honestly, Lambert's impressed. He didn't think the bard had the balls to do something of that nature.

But here they are.

"Alright Pigeon, we've got to think of another way out of here. Because I need my Cat and you need to get back your fucking mind."

Jaskier giggles and Lambert doesn't know how he never noticed it before. Maybe the bard just hadn't laughed in Kaer Morhen? But his laugh holds the sound of bells.

They're too far to reach each other, so Jaskier has to sit back and watch as Lambert sets his own broken fingers. First with his teeth, then, when one hand is good enough, he can properly set the rest.

Witcher healing is enhanced, but he'll still need a few days before he's able to do anything like fight their way out.

"They're going to bring bread first." Jaskier adds, helpfully.

"I'm sure they are. A pigeon like you must fucking love that."

Jaskier laughs again, this time just as bright as the last.

"Yes, but then the black bird comes and he tries to steal all my crumbs." He frowns.

"He sounds like a cunt."

Jaskier smiles.

"You're a funny little lamb."

Once all of Lambert's fingers are set, he shakes his hands. He probably should have set them before he fell asleep, but he was too fucking tired to bother. Now, he's had to deal with the sting of re-breaking them, in order to get them back into fighting shape.

"What happens after the black bird comes, Pige, keep talking."

Chapter Text

Lambert learns that the black bird is a knight in black Nilfgaardian armor.

He comes striding into the dungeon with his helmet sat on his head. A helmet with black feathers sticking out the top.

And apparently, what the bard meant by the black bird "stealing his crumbs," is the knight kicking the shit out of him.

The knight strides down the corridor and wrenches the bard's cell door open. Jaskier laughs, but it's nervous, no bells chime behind it.

And Lambert has to sit and watch as Jaskier weakly lifts his hands in protest. The knight disregards them and reaches out for a handful of the bard's hair.

The bard's head hits the ground with a force that would have cracked a human's. And once he's on the ground, he doesn't get back up.

The knight starts kicking at-- judging from the sound-- Jaskier's already broken ribs. Seems to be a favorite pasttime of the Nilfgaardians. Breaking ribs.

Lambert's own ache in sympathy. 

"Fucking useless, sorry piece of rubbish." He spits down at the bard.

Jaskier's curled up now. Arms doing their best to protect his face and head, knees folded, trying (in vain) to stop the attack on his abdomen.

Lambert wants to speak up, to tell that fucking crow to leave the bard alone, but he can't. 

He knows this is as much a demonstration for him as it is punishment for Jaskier.

This is the induction for a Nilfgaardian prisoner. And it makes Lambert sick to his fucking stomach.

All the cunts on this pisspoor continent think Witchers are monsters. Seemingly forgetting humans are the worst kind out there.

At least the kind Lambert hunts generally don't have a conscience. They don't have fucking morals. Laws. Gods to tell them right from wrong.

Jaskier cries out when the black knight drags him to his feet by the collar. He chokes and Lambert can't hold back a snarl.

The black knight stops in front of his cage. The corner of his mouth is quirked up in amusement.

"Oh? Does the monster hunter not like how we treat monsters?"

Lambert is crouched low on the ground, has been since that bastard walked in. He was ready for a fight, but it seems that the knight doesn't want to let the Witcher out to play.

He slams the bard up against Lambert's bars and the Witcher nearly flinches at his cry of pain. It seems that demetrium hurts fae as well.

Before Lambert can wonder why the bard had no problem touching his own cell bars, the knight is licking up the side of Jaskier's face.

Blood from his head wound has stained his cheek, trailing down to his jaw. He whimpers at the hand squeezing his hip and the implication alone is enough to bring Lambert to his feet.

"Get your filthy fucking hands off of him you cunt-faced arse."

The black knight smiles.

"It must run in Witcher blood." He chuckles. And Lambert snarls, reaching out between the bars, only to grasp thin fucking air.

The knight has pulled the bard back, just out of Lambert's reach. The bars sting, but he couldn't care less.

He's growling now, cursing demetrium from ever having been made. If he had his magic, he'd burn this man down. Though, he doubts he'd need it. He'd gladly use his bare hands to rip the feathers from his helmet and shove them up his arse.

"You all care so much about the virtue of a well-known whore. It's amusing."

Jaskier is trembling in the knight's hold. One of his legs seems unable to support his weight for very long, and he has to choose between trusting a weak leg or choking from the hold on his collar.

Before Lambert can curse him anymore, the knight drags the bard down the corridor, a laugh trailing behind him.

He's left alone, panting. Seething in his anger.

"SHIT!" He shouts, kicking at the nearest wall.

He growls, tugging his freshly healed hands through his hair until it hurts.

The ache is nothing compared to what the bard must be going through. He spits a mouthful of old blood and saliva onto the cell floor.

This fucking place will not be the death of him. He will get out of here and find his Cat.

And he's going to bring that damned bard with him.

But for now, he paces.

Even with Witcher hearing, the dungeon is quiet, save for a few mice.

Lambert shakes his foot at one that tries to scurry past him.

He doesn't fuck around with rats or mice. They're scavengers. They'll eat when they're hungry. It doesn't even matter if what they're eating is still alive.

Jaskier hadn't seemed too wary of the creatures, but Lambert's not willing to risk it. He'll give them a wide berth and threaten them into doing the same for him.

Keeping an ear out for guards, or Jaskier, Lambert turns around to inspect his cell in the faint morning light.

With the help of Jaskier's window, he can see better. Not that he can't see in the dark, it's just hard to do when you've got two black eyes.

Studying the walls, he sees stone, stone, and more fucking stone. Three walls of the stuff.

He reaches out then, testing the weakness, trying to feel the mortar lines. If a Witcher was in here, they wouldn't have sat here, day in and day out, doing nothing.

Parts of the brickwork look worn, most of it lower. Likely where someone would have sat and pressed their back against. It would take years to wear down, simply leaning into it. But if someone were rubbing against it...

He sighs.

He's sure the Cat had time to rub himself against these walls. Marking them with his own scent in a mimicry of the affectionate brushes his siblings shared. 

His poor fucking Cat.

Alone, except for a cracked-in-the-head bard, and his dumb older brother.

He sighs.

Eskel wasn't dumb.

And if this was his cell, Eskel would have left something behind. Some attempt at escape.

Maybe he tried beating through the wall. Lambert brushes his fingers over the spot softly.

No, this wasn't done out of a need for escape. At least, not in the physical sense.

This was done by his Cat, trying to escape the mental isolation of this imprisonment. Cats crave comfort. Whether they care to admit it or not.

Lambert's met enough to know, they love scenting one another, brushing up against their litter mates and grooming each other.

Sure, they fight. What family doesn't?

Lambert's had his fair share of scraps with his brothers. In fact, it's practically a ritual every time they return home from the path.

Whomever arrives first usually gains the upper hand. Generally well-rested, ready to pounce on those too exhausted from the journey up the Killer to defend themselves.

The thought brings an empty smile to his face.

He hopes Eskel's alright.

He hopes that Aiden is too.

He hopes they're getting along, wherever they are, and that they aren't killing each other.

That they aren't worried over Jaskier. Because, as annoying of a shit that bard was, Lambert owed him. As all Witchers did, since he began singing about the White Wolf.

Humans didn't run away from him in fear anymore. It has been years since anyone dared to stone him from town. Brothels didn't charge him an arm and a leg for a simple fuck.

Everything changed when Jaskier came into Geralt's life. Not just for his brother-- though he did change.

As reluctant as Lambert had been to commune with the bard last winter, he knew that they had to work together to get out of here.

He turns his back away from the wall, missing a small pile of dust in the corner.

He looks through his own bars then, to study Jaskier's. His bars look exactly like Lambert's, which makes sense. Nilfgaard wants to imprison Witchers, so they needed a prison fit to hold them.

Demetrium wasn't easy to come by. He doubts there's more than these two, maybe three cells. He can't see if there are any beside him, getting too close to the bars stings. And he'd rather hit his prick on the ground than stick his head through these bars.

How could the bard have touched it earlier though?

Lambert thinks back to how the bard looked this morning.

His eyes were definitely not human. However, he couldn't see the bard's ears. And he  hadn't notice any extra sharpness of the bard's teeth.

Perhaps the bard was merely half-fae and half-mortal. It wasn't unheard of. The fae fucked whomever they pleased, willing or otherwise.

Jaskier could be the bastard of any random fae that passed through his hometown.

He played good music, maybe one took a liking to him and gifted the bard with fae traits.

Lambert has read and heard countless tales of the fae and their mischief. Anything could be possible.

Lambert pushed that aside for later. He could try to ask the bard, but it'd be for naught with Jaskier's memory the way that it is.

But he makes a note of Jaskier's ability to endure the touch of demetrium. It may help in their escape later.

If he could get out of his own cell, perhaps they could figure a way to open Lambert's.

The Witcher sits down then, done examining the cells for the time being.

He closes his eyes and waits for the bard's return.

Chapter Text

They don't bring the bard back until later.

Much.

Much.

Later.

So much later, in fact, that Jaskier's window no longer holds the sun.

He can only guess, based on the residual light and the shadows it casts, that they're well into the afternoon.

Two guards end up dragging the bard behind them, uncaring of his comfort enough to actually pick him up. Honestly, it's probably more difficult dragging him by the arms.

Just dead weight-

Lambert clenches his hands.

He's not dead.

The Witcher can still hear his heartbeat.

His head sags between his shoulders like it weighs a tonne. And with the iron collar, it just might.

They toss the bard into his cell, not bothering to see where he lands before locking it behind them.

Lambert studies the keys in the guard's hand. If he can get out of his cell, he'll need to know which one will free the bard.

Jaskier is laying on his side, back turned to Lambert. His legs are twisted together, one arm is outstretched towards the wall while the other lies carelessly tossed over his hip.

He smells like blood.

And cum.

Lambert growls, low and inaudible to human ears, the guards leave without sending a look in his direction.

"Calm down puppy." Jaskier whispers.

His voice is awful, wrecked from screaming, no doubt.

Lambert only realizes that his growling hasn't stopped until Jaskier mentioned it.

"Why are they doing this if you don't know anything?" He grits.

Jaskier takes in a deep breath. His chest looks uneven as he does so, even more so than it had before.

"I forgot to feed the mice."

Lambert's brow furrows. He thought he was getting a grasp on understanding the bard, but that was completely unexpected.

"Who gives a shit about the mice? Why are they torturing you? What good does it do? It's a risk every time they take you from that cell. You're a liability for their cause."

Jaskier chuckles, empty and hollow.

"I think I remember being a liability. I definitely recall being useless."

Lambert can't help it. He laughs.

Jaskier turns over then, tears quick to appear in his eyes and shame reddening his cheeks. Lambert has to wipe his own face dry before he can speak.

"Pige, if there's anything you're not, it's useless. And my dumb cunt of a brother should have told you so ages ago."

Jaskier no longer looks ready to cry, at least, not from hurt feelings. Lambert has an idea about why his eyes are still moist.

"I wouldn't be here right now, if it wasn't for you bard." And before Jaskier can take that the wrong way, he adds, "alive. Not the prison shit."

Jaskier turns over fully. It's a slow, painful process that Lambert waits to be finished. He's got the bard's attention. His eyes aren't as distant, unfocused.

Lambert needs to come up with a plan before the bard goes back to being batshit crazy.

"Can you reach those bars?"

*      *      *

Lambert tests Jaskier's ability to resist demetrium. He can hold on for a decent amount of time. Near four minutes.

It'd probably be more if he wasn't injured. He doesn't know if this would work if the bard had all of his mind.

While he seems to know that he isn't human, most concepts of fae magic and history are lost on him. He must have given the secret of his fae nature away to someone.

Not that it mattered. Nilfgaard knows.

So much so that the fucking crow told Jaskier they're brining a mage in.

"In two weeks time," like that is enough time to learn the layout of the castle, the guards and their stations, and stay healthy enough to make the trip.

Lambert had asked the bard how often the black bird came for him, but he merely got a shrug in reply.

So, the Witcher waits.

He needs at least three days to heal himself. Without Witcher potions and nothing but bread and water to sustain him, healing his ribs and the wounds on his back and head will take time.

The hole in his thigh, from an arrow bolt, seems to be healing up nicely though. He had gotten it a week ago and it's nearly gone.

He could withstand running through the dungeon right now.

It would suck.

But he could do it.

But, he's got Jaskier to worry about. So he's got to be in as good of shape as possible.

But by the light of the next morning, the guards come.

There is no black bird today.

No, the guards completely ignore Jaskier.

Lambert is crouched, waiting for them to open his cell, waiting to attack when one of the bastards comes around the corner, tossing in a leather satchel.

A satchel that explodes as soon as it lands in front of him.

He's too weak to have jumped out of the way. He hardly even realized that shitheel was carrying a bomb until it fucking blew up in his face.

It's enough to disorient him, nearly sends him right on his ass.

But before he can think about falling over, the three guards jump on him.

Subduing him well enough to get him out of the cell and down the hall before he can so much as blink.

Seven hells. He's got to give this clods credit. That was a finely executed maneuver.

But that doesn't stop him from lashing in their hold halfway to the interogation chamber.

He shoves one guard into the wall, kicks the other in the gut, and he's wrestling with the third when the corridor suddenly fills with soldiers. All carrying swords. Aimed right at Lambert.

He sighs behind the muzzle.

This is going to be horseshit.

And he's right.

With a set of freshly re-broken knuckles, from beating in one bastard's helmet, and a bleeding wound on the back of his head, he's escorted into a room.

There are no windows, barely any candles, and only one chair.

He assumes the chair is meant for him. And, judging by the restraints on the arms and legs of it, he has a feeling he's about to get real comfortable.

Three different guards lead him in, but, they bypass the chair completely. He thinks they might attach him to the table on the right, but a noise catches his attention suddenly.

That's when Lambert sees the chains hanging from the ceiling.

Fuck.

He tries to test the hold of the new soldiers, but there's little give.

It takes four of them to hoist him up, and another three when he fights back. Once he's caught, dangling by his fucking ankles, they all give him a wide berth.

He snarls and swings, both his hand and his body, quickly following after.

The manacles dig into his boots, threatening to cut right through the leather. Lambert pants, the blood is rushing to his head, slowing him down.

It speeds up the blood pouring from the back of his skull though. Which is, arguably, not good.

They could bleed him dry like this.

Cut him in the right places, let him bleed out. And with how little they feed him, his healing won't be fast enough to stop it.

The black bird comes in then.

The crowd of soldiers parts willingly for their leader.

He looks different upside down, but Lambert recognizes the feathers quickly.

"What kind of a desperate whelp walks around, in full armour, in his own prison?" He asks.

The black bird stops just a few feet shy of the Witcher. His face looks passive, but Lambert knows his comment hit a nerve.

So this knight isn't in charge at all.

He's merely some errand boy. Probably for the White fucking Flame. Gods. Just what Lambert needs. A wet-behind-the-ears soldier looking to prove his worth to the empire.

"My name is Cahir, and you've found yourself under the gaze of the White Flame. You have information that he needs. And I intend to get it, through whatever means necessary."

And then he turns on his heel, hands held together behind his back as he nods to the guards.

They look at Lambert with greedy eyes set on vengeance. He recognizes a few of the faces in the room now. Faces he fucked up pretty badly. 

Faces looking to return the favor. 

There won't be much talking.

No.

They won't bother to question him today, and Cahir, the dirty fucking crow, knows it. 

"Shit." Lambert breathes.

Chapter Text

It's such a good arse-kicking that Lambert doesn't even remember the journey back to his cell. 

He thinks he hears a chirping by his head at one point and sluggishly tries to swat at it. 

Too many fucking birds in this place.

He's dropped carelessly onto the ground and he groans. 

His face is pressed right up against the hard stones and for the first time in nearly a fortnight, he wished he still had the muzzle on.

They removed it when it impeded their way of his barking insults.

Gods, he thinks he lost a tooth.

Slowly, his arm journeys up towards his face where he weakly paws at his jaw. His tongue feels swollen, like he must've bit into it at some point.

He tries to work it around in his mouth, to feel his teeth-- or the lack thereof.

The eye closest to the ground isn't swollen shut, so he can see the bard flitting about in the cell across from him.

He looks concerned.

Or maybe he's dancing. Lambert can't quite tell, but his ears are still ringing from that last hit he took to the head.

"Shut up bard, I can't fucking think."

Jaskier seems to stop dancing and slowly lowers himself to his knees.

"I fed the mice today." He says, like it's some good news that would make Lambert feel better.

Fucking nutter.

Lambert groans as he rolls over onto his back. His blood is slowly traveling back down to his arms and legs, lessening the pressure in his head.

He'd sit up if he could.

He'd tell the bard to shut the fuck up again, if there was any chance he actually would.

Jaskier is prattling on, voice low so as not to disturb Lambert's aching mind. It's nice enough that Lambert falls into a light slumber.

He's been tortured by mages and survived the Grasses, been thrashed about by monsters ten times his size, but even he has to admit that this was one good beating.

Perhaps sleep is a good idea.

*      *      *

When he wakes there's mice in his cell.

He flinches, startling them and his injuries as he sits up.

"Scram! Filthy fucking bastards." He grumbles as they scurry off between the bars.

It's odd, but they run immediately to Jaskier.

Jaskier who's still in his cell.

"The fuck's the wake up call, bard?" 

Jaskier looks over at him, head tilted to the best of his collared capabilities.

"We did wake you."

"Not you, the-

Lambert blinks, eyes slow as they track the unmoving creatures at Jaskier's feet.

His back straightens then. Realization crashing down on him like the fucking fist he got to the face last night.

"You can command them." He breathes.

Jaskier smiles his wild, feral grin.

"I said I had many friends."

Lambert looks around his cell then, where the mice once were and finally notices a pile of dirt clumped near the wall.

He drags himself closer, noticing more dirt scattered about. Lambert lowers himself to the ground, chest aching but mind feverishly working.

There's a loose stone.

He reaches out and, with grit teeth, manages to wrench it free. There's more brickwork behind it, but Lambert laughs.

This is a good start.

"Can't have them with me, the black bird likes to take them." Jaskier admits, holding one gently as he pets it's head.

"Well, after yesterday, I can confirm. He really is a cunt."

Jaskier smiles, pleased with Lambert's deductions.

"So how's it work?"

Jaskier shrugs.

Must be information he gave away. Shit.

Oh well, it's not like he can give away the actual ability. Just the memory of doing it. This is good.

Means they can use this.

And now Lambert can start formulating a plan.

He can scale the outer walls once there's a big enough opening. He's just got to take care of his hands in the meantime.

It's better that they're hanging him by his ankles then.

If he scales the dungeon walls, he might be able to reach the roof, or parapet, whatever they've got sitting on top this shithole.

He could probably fit through Jaskier's window. He wouldn't be able to lift the bard out, it's way too high for a human (or half human) to reach.

A drop from that height would hurt, but he's a Witcher. He's fallen from higher. 

As long as they're in the same room, they could worry about the hows and whys later.

Jaskier can touch his own bars long enough to possibly free them. So, Lambert could join Jaskier in his cell and, theoretically, there would be a way out.

All they needed next was a key.

Seems easy enough.

They regularly take Jaskier back for questioning (torture) and they'll undoubtedly do the same to Lambert.

He'll have to wait until the mice get far enough into the wall before trying to steal a set of keys off the guards. And they'll have to survive said torture in order to escape. But, judging from the look in Jaskier's eyes, he's ready.

He smiles at the bard.

"Well Pige, looks like we're getting out of this piss pot."

Chapter Text

"Just tell me where I can find Geralt of Rivia, and I will see to it that you're fed. Properly this time." Cahir says, walking around Lambert's hanging frame.

They've tried a few positions, but it seems that the Witcher absolutely destests being strung upside down. He doesn't stop fighting until his mutant blood is draining to his head and he's been struck a few times.

It's amusing.

To see a Witcher with a weakness.

Lambert shoots a gob of spit and blood in Cahir's direction and the knight's face wrinkles with disgust.

"I don't understand why you're so faithful. You're a Witcher, you don't have emotions. How can you have loyalty?"

"Get fucked." He responds.

It always seems to chap Cahir's ass when Lambert ignores him. He likes feeling in control. But no matter what he puts Lambert through, he hasn't spoken out in betrayal of his brother.

That big dumb fuck would undoubtedly do the same for him, so, what choice has he?

And Lambert's certainly not going to let the bard outlast him.

Though, he will admit that two days ago, when they brought the bard back, he didn't think they could wait for much longer.

They're starving them now.

It's been three days, and as long as Jaskier has his window, the sun will sustain him.

Lambert, however, is fucking hungry.

And that makes him weak.

He can't afford to be weak when they're trying to escape.

At least they've stopped breaking his fingers. They keep them cuffed together behind his back most days in which he visits the torture chamber.

He's been lucky enough to go a week without breaking any bones.

Minus his ribs.

Fucking Nilfgaardians. It's like they know no other way to inflict pain upon another person. It's honestly insulting by this point. Aiden would have taken these whelps to school had a demetrium cage not been standing in the way.

Not that what they're doing leaves Lambert wanting.

No. They manage to keep him on that tight rope of hating the fuckers and wanting to yield. Just long enough to catch his breath.

And the longer he goes without food, the worse off his senses are.

It's shit. But they'll manage.

It's just...without food, Jaskier hasn't been able to compel the mice into digging. So they're running behind schedule. And that doesn't bode well for Jaskier because the mage is coming.

She's supposed to be here in four days and the mice have only dug around another row of bricks. There's at least two more to go.

If he wasn't starving, he might have had the strength to break through those last layers.

But he is starving.

"Fine. If beating you won't force the answers out, we'll just take it out on the bard."

Lambert looks up then, the rest of his body slowly swaying to a stop as Cahir orders the guards to fetch Jaskier.

They've never done this before.

The guards only take them out, one at a time. Never both.

He's only seen the aftermath.

He's never seen what happens when they take the bard.

He's... he's smelled some of it, but it's not an everyday occurrence. Usually they just smack the bard around. They don't touch the bard unless...

Unless Lambert's done something to piss Cahir off.

His hands jerk in the demetrium cuffs behind him. There's a growl working its way up his throat and out into the room. He'd sooner gouge his fucking eyes out than watch this.

"Look, you dumb fucking twat, it's me you want. The bard's cracked. You know that. Otherwise you wouldn't have sent for the mage."

Cahir sends him a smile from over his shoulder.

They should have done this days ago.

All Witchers really are the same.

Two guards come then, carrying between them the useless bard.

Cahir's gotten to know this man in the time he's been here. He's some kind of fae, that much they've figured out. Otherwise he wouldn't have been able to open up a rift by singing, which freed the last two Witchers he had imprisoned.

The collar stops most of his capabilities, but Cahir's certain there's something they're missing. The Witcher's tongue should have been working by this point. That's how's it's been for the last few they've managed to capture.

They weren't a loyal species. If they couldn't be bought, it could be beaten out of them.

Not the Cat and Wolf unfortunately, but the ones before?

They practically led the guards right to Jaskier.

And this fucking bard should have been the key to finding Geralt of Rivia and Princess Cirilla. But he's as the Witcher said, 'cracked in the head'.

Hopefully this will garner some information out of this one.

Cahir has the guards strap Jaskier face-down to the table, and that alone has the Witcher barking mad.

The bard's heart rate is picking up, and Lambert can only imagine how frightened he must be.

He's got hardly any memories other than this prison and these fucking Nilfgaardian bastards torturing him. The only kindness he's been shown is from the filthy mice that he shares scraps with, and Lambert.

"I'll rip your throats out, I swear to the High Priestess. None of you will walk out of here alive."

Cahir chuckles, risking his fingers as he pats Lambert on the leg in passing.

"That's big talk from a man dangling from his boots."

Lambert snarls then, bending at the waist to try and throw himself at Cahir. But the knight is gone before he can so much as scream in his face.

The chains jerk and jeer at him as he swings violently back. Lambert nearly crashes into the wall before another guard shoves him back in the direction of the table. And the bard strapped to it.

He can't watch this.

He can't fucking watch this.

"Strip him." The bloody black fucking crow says and Lambert is thrashing in his chains now.

He doesn't care if it makes him spin in circles or if it breaks his fucking ankles. He's not going to just hang here, passively paying witness to these bastards-

"Puppy please." Jaskier begs.

He's panting, practically choking on his rage, but Jaskier's words slow the Witcher down enough to gather his bearings.

They're not waiting for the mice or mages. He's getting them out today.

Right fucking now.

He slows to a small, back-and-forth swaying, something that unfortunately gives him a clear view of the guards tearing Jaskier's trousers. The bard cries out in surprise and Lambert's hands clench. He closes his eyes.

He must remain calm for this to work.

Cahir is watching the Witcher's face, a frown working its way between his own brows. Something's changed.

Where the Witcher was practically foaming at the mouth earlier; now, he's gone catatonic. His eyes are closed and the tense posture he usually holds has gone lax.

Cahir holds a hand up to the soldier waiting at Jaskier's hips.

He motions for two of the closest guards to join him as he approaches the Witcher.

He's never dared to get this close to the Witcher without insurance. The distance between them shrinks as six feet becomes four. The Witcher doesn't react.

Four becomes two. Still nothing.

The Witcher doesn't usually waste an opportunity to attack. He should have done something by now. 

"Are you meditating?" Cahir growls, frustration evident in his tone for all to hear.

Lambert wants to smile, but he can't lose his focus. He's not truly meditating, but he does feel more grounded simply feigning the act.

He can hear the guards moving around him, and Cahir as he lifts a hand to strike him.

The hit makes its mark across his jaw, but he barely moves with it, only furthering the knight's ire.

"Wake him up!" He commands and the guards move to unchain him from the ceiling.

As soon as he hits the ground, he opens his eyes.

The guards flinch back in surprise, but that's a mistake on their parts. It gives Lambert enough room to pull his hands under the bridge of his legs.

Cahir is shouting orders now, for all the guards present to attack, but Lambert's more than ready.

He kicks one guard in the gut, rupturing his liver. He strikes out at another with his chained hands, crushing their esophagus.

There's ten, maybe twelve guards present, but they're no match for Lambert's precision. He's wanted to make these bastards pay, and he'll be damned if he leaves any here alive.

The chains on his wrists be damned. The weapons at their waists too.

He promised them death. And Lambert intends to deliver it.

He fights until the only guard left standing is Cahir.

The knight has watched the horrors unfold in front of him as the Witcher fought with deadly aim and obvious skill. He steps back, letting the soldiers before him rush the Witcher.

And when they're all gone, he's standing. Waiting behind the bard with a sword to his throat.

Lambert's panting, exhaustion slowly creeping into his veins. His hunger brings black dots into his peripheral vision. The dozen guards lay groaning and bleeding on the ground around him. They're in his way.

He won't reach the bard in time.

"Pigeon," he needlessly calls. Jaskier's eyes are already on him, wide and frightened.

"You sould have made bigger friends than rats."

Jaskier's eyes seem to flicker with recognition, but it's gone when Cahir presses his sword closer. He's shouting for reinforcements, eyes never leaving the threat in front of him.

"C'mon Pige." Lambert encourages.

He can touch demetrium. He can command animals. That iron might slow him down, but Lambert knows Jaskier isn't powerless.

There are marching feet rushing down the hall. Lambert sways where he stands.

He drops down to his knees before the door's kicked in. He hears one more shout before his body drops.

The darkness swallows Lambert whole before he can see who it's from.

He doesn't even feel when he hits the ground.

Chapter Text

Lambert wakes up, much to his own surprise.

However, as soon as he's opened his eyes, he has to close them right back.

The fucking light hurts after a week and a half of darkness.

He slowly becomes aware of his body. Of his limbs, then his ribs, and his aching head. Most of these were from his escape, but the others? He's got prison and Cahir to thank for those.

His eyes burst open then.

Cahir.

"Jaskier!" He yells, struggling to sit upright.

There's a weight on his shoulders, shoving him back, but Lambert fights.

His chains are gone, but he doesn't notice, too busy fighting his new restraints. The flesh kind, wrapped around his shoulders, to stop him from hurting himself or...

The Witcher takes in a breath, bringing with it the smells of the forest and-

"Pige?"

Jaskier comes into view, he's perched on the balls of his feet, holding Lambert at an arm's length.

Slowly, the urge to fight escapes him. Causing Jaskier's hold to loosen.

"You okay puppy?"

Lambert tries to work his way out of Jaskier's grasp, but the bard doesn't seem ready to release him yet. The Witcher rolls his eyes, but indulges him for another minute.

"Yeah Pige, I'm alright. Got Witcher healing, don't I?"

Jaskier finally releases him then, a frown marring the delicate constitution of his face.

He looks pale in the morning light, something that Lambert needs to rectify if they're going to keep traveling. Which... where the fuck are they?

And, more importantly, how the fuck did they get here?

"I don't like when I can't see the gold."

Now it's Lambert's turn to frown. Gold? What gold?

"You're not allowed to do that again." The bard announces, and Lambert's eyebrows shoot up near his hairline.

"Fuck off Pige, don't tell me what to do. And- more importantly- what in the seven hells are you talking about?"

The bard drops uncerimoniously beside the Witcher in the dirt. His arms are crossed and so is his attitude.

Great, now he's got a crazy and grouchy bard on his hands. The life of a Witcher is never easy.

Especially with this fop in the picture.

"The hell are we?" He asks when Jaskier doesn't answer his first question.

Jaskier shrugs then, seemingly looking around for the first time since Lambert woke.

"How'd we get out?"

Jaskier smiles then, practically bouncing with excitement.

"Lamb, you wouldn't have believed it! I was big and then I was small, and look!" He says, tilting his chin up to display his throat.

His bare throat.

His collar's gone. Just like Lambert's cuffs. Those could have been unlocked with the right key or tool. But that collar?

Lambert doesn't remember seeing a clasp or lock on it.

If he's capable of transmogrification, he's definitely stronger than Lambert previously thought. If only he could remember all of his capabilities.

But, it doesn't matter. They're free from Cahir's dungeon.

They need to get to Kaer Morhen. Right away.

Lambert makes to stand, much to Jaskier's displeasure. He croons and tucks himself up under the Witcher's arm, helping Lambert rise to his feet.

"If I don't see gold, we're stopping."

Lambert only realizes then that his eyes are closed. That he clenched them in pain on standing.

Is that what-

The bard pokes the side of his head, right near his swollen eye. Lambert growls and swats at him.

"Grumpy Lamb. Just like my kitten said." Jaskier laughs.

Without the collar, there is no mistaking the sound of chiming bells, or the mischief in his eyes. Jaskier's not human. And Lambert doubts that he ever was.

No mortal could be gifted transmogrification. Only fae are born with that capability.

The only question left then is which court he hails from. He could come from a summer court, somewhere near Oxenfurt. There's plenty of trees and shit for fae to run amok. Perhaps a spring court, he thinks, eyeing the bard's outfit.

Yeah, Jaskier was a flowery fop. Spring sounds about right for him.

Which was good. Means less possibility for him to kill Lambert in his sleep.

Though, all fae are tricksters. There's no telling the trouble they'll get into on the way to Kaer Morhen. Jaskier won't be able to help it. And without his memories, he'll be running on instinct. Instinct that will tell him to be an absolute menace.

Hopefully those instincts brought them near his home court.

Depending on where they landed, it could take months to reach Kaer Morhen on foot. And judging by the cool air, they haven't got much time to waste. Winter is around the corner. And if the bard's from a spring or summer court, he won't fair well in the cold.

That's probably why Cahir had that window in Jaskier's cell.

Lambert nods to himself. He's piecing the puzzle together.

It'd be easier if the bard could just tell him, but his egg's still cracked.

Lambert doesn't slow their pace then, but he does falter.

Will the bard be able to get his mind back? If they can't find all of the people he gifted his secrets and memories to, will he be like this forever?

What happens if some of them died? Will those memories be lost, never to be recovered again?

"How close are we to the prison?"

Jaskier shrugs. Then, seemingly forgetting Lambert's injuries, he leaves the Witcher's side.

Lambert stumbles into a nearby tree as the bard prances around in a circle. He twists around a tree opposite Lambert, smiling a feral kind of grin.

Please be from a spring court.

There's nothing wrong with a fall or winter court. It's just that the Unseelie tend to favor those lands more. Meaning the wicked and dangerous fae often intermingle with the winter faeries. And if they were to base his home on Jaskier's mania alone, all clues would point to a wintery mix of batshit crazy.

"I sang a song and now we're here! Isn't that lovely?" He flits from tree trunk to tree trunk, swinging on low branches and dancing about. "Oh how I love to sing. I used to sing all the time. That's what my wolf told me. But the black bird didn't like it."

Lambert scoffs.

"Said he was a cunt, Pigeon."

Jaskier rolls his eyes. His whimsy seems to fade as he excitedly approaches Lambert again.

Grabbing the Witcher by the shoulders, he squeezes tight, a little too tight.

"The black bird's gone!" He cries, elated.

Lambert nods, slow, careful.

So Jaskier killed him.

The fae pulls Lambert's arm then, bringing them back on track to find the nearest town.

They'll need supplies. And Lambert needs to know how far Jaskier was able to take them. If they're anywhere near Oxenfurt or Redania, they have a chance of hiding with the crowds.

Lambert, though weak and hungry, is still unmistakeable as a Witcher. And without a glamour to hide the wildness in Jaskier's eyes, they'll need some place used to things like them.

For now, they'll stick to smaller trails. They'll only head to town when neccessary, and under no uncertain terms should they draw attention to themselves.

Fucking Geralt. If he'd have just kept track of his bard, none of this would be happening.

But no.

He's left that up to Lambert. Now Lambert has to cross the continent with a flighty, wild fae just so he can find shelter. And Aiden.

Chapter Text

They've made it two days in the woods. Woods that Lambert realizes belong to Aedirn.

With the Blue Mountains in the northeast, and the Mahakam mountain range just shy of north, Kaer Morhen is a straight shot between them.

They've got to make it through all of Kaedwen though.

It won't take more than two or three weeks on foot. More if there's already snow on the mountains. But it's better than he could have hoped for.

His ribs have started to heal, especially since he was able to actually hunt yesterday.

He had to make do with a crude snare, but it got the job done, nonetheless. Three rabbits and some berries Jaskier foraged for and Lambert was suddenly feeling very un-shitlike.

It's a miracle what food in your gut can do. Lambert intends to eat his way to Kaer Morhen.

He doesn't think he'll be able to stand the sight of bread for awhile. Unless it was some of Vesimir's oat bread, lathered with Eskel's goat cheese and honey. Gods, he can practically taste it now.

His mouth would be salivating had he any liquid to spare.

They're near a town, Lambert can hear it. He doesn't have any swords to offer up his services the usual way. He'll have to make coin doing some odd jobs.

Like that's any different to what he usually does on the path. He once got paid for getting someone's sheep off of their thatch roof.

It had started nosing around, thinking it hay. Apparently, it was a particularly stubborn thing.

With one poorly placed cart and it's can-do little shit attitude, it had climbed it's way to the roof and would have started eating had it not been for the good fortune of a Witcher passing by.

He doubts there will be any sheep in need of rescue. He may have to intimidate a few people for coin, bash a couple of heads in.

It didn't matter. They needed the money in order to get supplies.

It was getting colder at night and Jaskier was positively trembling in his sleep. They can't risk sleeping with an open fire, so Lambert has taken it upon himself to use his own body heat to warm the bard.

He's not calling it cuddling.

It's sharing body heat, dammit.

Jaskier's head is tucked under his chin now, nose buried in his throat in a way Lambert didn't particularly care for. Trusting someone, practically a stranger, near his throat was hard. Oftentimes, if he isn't paying attention, he'll try to shove the bard away.

It's too dangerous leaving his throat exposed to someone with teeth as sharp as Jaskier's.

Which had been fun discovering.

After his first successful snare-hunt, the bard hadn't even waited for Lambert to skin or cook the rabbit.

No, he had snatched it out of Lambert's hands with inhuman speed and tore a chunk right out of its back.

Apparently a hungry fae is a dangerous one. Making Lambert wonder, yet again, just how Jaskier managed to kill the black bird.

"Need to cut this shit, Pige." Lambert says as Jaskier's hair tickles his chin.

His own hair has grown during his time in captivity. His beard has never been this long. As soon as he has access to a knife, he's hacking it off.

He doesn't mind something hanging from the jaw, gods knew Aiden hadn't minded either. But this? He could make a goat jealous. And it itched. Neither he nor Jaskier has found the will to wash properly.

They've found water, but with the chill in the air, it's a risk to douse their bodies and clean their clothes. There would hardly be enough time for their stuff to dry, and Lambert doesn't think the bard's rags could take it.

They need food, baths, and clothes. Maybe not exactly in that order, but he'll do what he can to find all three.

A bedroll or blanket couldn't hurt either. And they'll need water skins. And he needs a knife, at least. A sword if they can manage it.

The list keeps growing and growing, doubling because of the bard. Getting to Kaer Morhen will be no easy feat.

But neither was escaping the prison.

Nor surviving these past few days on nothing but Witcher grit and fae shit.

It might be easier trying to get Jaskier to sing another song and transport them closer to the Witcher keep. But Lambert doesn't know if that's something Jaskier can manage. Did he remember Kaer Morhen?

Does he need to know a place in order to go there?

They'll have to work on the limits and capabilities of Jaskier's powers if they're going to keep traveling together. Lambert needs to know the extent of Jaskier's magic.

Jaskier grumbles from where he's buried in Lambert's chest. He's very reluctant to wake so early. But they must in order to beat the winter temperatures to Kaer Morhen.

"Fine." Jaskier pouts, but Lambert's forgotten what they were talking about.

He looks down at the bard's head in time to see his hair shrinking. No longer does it dangle near his shoulders. It reaches, curling around his ears.

What the fuck.

Lambert raises a hand up, unable to do much else but stare in awe. He gathers a good handful up into one hand.

The bard can change his appearance.

He won't need a glamour.

"Pige, this is amazing! Did you even know that you could do this shit? I mean, look at it, its-

He realizes suddenly that the bard has gone still against his chest. Jaskier's heart beat has risen, practically slamming into his ribs. Lambert looks up, assessing the area around their camp.

He hadn't heard anything approaching.

"Puppy," Jaskier's voice trembles. Lambert looks down.

Jaskier doesn't look up, his eyes remain fastidiously focused on the Witcher's chin.

"Could you please let go?"

Lambert's hand is still in his hair. Still tight around the handful he grabbed upon his earlier inspection.

He drops it just as quickly as he grabbed it.

"Sorry Pige, didn't mean to frighten you."

Jaskier's body sags with relief as soon as he's free.

There are faint tremors shaking his shoulders and Lambert feels like a proper arse.

The bard's been hurt, undoubtedly held down against his will. Lambert will have to be mindful of that in the future.

"Didn't," Jaskier tries to lie. To placate whatever expression must have come across Lambert's face. Which Jaskier is finally looking up at again.

"We should get moving." He says, slowly pulling away from the bard.

How the fuck did Eskel do this? Taking care of the bard before his brain was in tattered ribbons was hard. But now? It seemed impossible.

Honestly, Jaskier kind of reminded him of Cat Witchers, at least, the one's who've gone mad. Except Jaskier's madness comes from a lack, not a spark.

Cat's get pushed to madness, whereas Jaskier... well, Jaskier seems to maintain both madness and clarity at the same time.

He can speak in clear sentences, his eyes are never clouded over, and yet, the words that come out are utter madness. And his eyes are too wide, seemingly searching for a trick to play or something shiny to steal.

Lambert makes a note of that, to keep an eye out for things the bard might steal. They won't be allowed to stay in town long enough for Lambert to find a job if Jaskier gets them kicked out for stealing.

The madness will take some getting used to. Especially because he knows how the bard used to behave before this and this... well. It's far fucking from it.

Breaking down camp doesn't take very long, seeing as they have no possessions beyond Lambert's wooden snare.

They'll need to freshen up before they reach town. He motions for the bard to face him.

"You can change your appearance." He says, unsure whether or not Jaskier knows.

But he seems surprised by Lambert's statement. Cautiously reaching his own hand up to do his own inspection of his hair.

Great, another ability that he most likely has no recollection how to use.

"Can you change your eyes to look more like mine?"

Jaskier looks into his eyes, studying them.

"Can I make mine red? I think red is such a marvelous color."

Lambert sighs. Red's not a normal fucking eye color. He pinches his fingers between his nose, massaging his head in the process.

"How about we focus on changing the shape before we go worrying about colors?"

"Okay!" Jaskier replies excitedly. He closes his eyes then, and tilts his head. Like he's trying to hear something very quiet from far away.

Maybe he is. Maybe he's trying to listen to his instincts. Either way, Lambert doesn't move, anticipating failure on the bard's first try.

And yet, when Jaskier opens his eyes, the iris is no longer swallowing the white of his eye. They are still blue. That iridescent, other-worldly blue.

But, it's a start.

"How do ya feel about green?"

Chapter Text

The first town would have been a bust for work had they not been raising a barn.

Turns out Witcher strength, even one as weakened as Lambert's, still out paces the average man by hours. He helped the townsfolk of Asheberg despite his disheveled appearance. And they thanked him for it by offering them a room and a meal at the nearest inn.

A thick, hearty stew is set out before the both of them and Jaskier plucks up his bowl and ravenously starts devouring it like he had the rabbit. Judging from the barkeep's expression, that's not normal, human, behavior.

Though, Lambert is also tempted to eat like that after surviving off of foraging in the woods for three days. He reaches across the table to Jaskier's bowl and lowers it, despite the bard's threatening growl.

It's too low for human ears, which is good. But it still rankles at Lambert's own instincts to bear his teeth back at the wild fae. He manages not to, just by a hair.

He offers the bard his discarded spoon instead.

"Use the fucking spoon Pige."

Jaskier's brows furrow together grumpily. He takes the spoon.

After they've eaten and drank a tankard of ale each, they're shown to their room.

"Would it be too much of an imposition if I asked for a bath?"

The inn keep shakes his head, offering up a smile.

"No, of course not! My brother would still be out there building by the time winter came had it not been for your help."

He's about one step out the door when he stops. The inn keeper turns, sheepishly looking the two of them over.

"Might I suggest a change of clothes as well? My son might have clothes to fit your friend, and my brother wouldn't mind parting with something for you, sir."

Lambert accepts his offer, trying not to appear too thankful. He can't be indebted to this town. They need to leave as soon as they are able.

Two women bring up buckets of steaming water, followed by the inn keeper's son, who brings a wooden tub.

It's not the smallest tub he's ever bathed in, but it's pretty damn close. Whatever, he doesn't care. Anything is better than cold river water.

Once the tub's filled and everyone but him and the bard are gone, Lambert motions Jaskier to go first.

The inn keeper was kind enough to leave a bar of soap on top of a pile of the clothes. Lambert grabs it, using it to wave the bard onwards again.

"Can't swim." He says in response.

"Well good fucking thing it's not the sea. It's a tub. Either you get in or I toss you in. We smell like shit, Pige, and I ain't leaving this place still looking like it."

Jaskier seems to contemplate this. Which is more than Lambert's patience can handle. He starts tugging off his own clothes then.

"Fine, bathe after me then. If you won't go first."

Lambert will admit, he's glad for the bard's reluctance as the bath is nice and hot when he sits down. He groans out in pleasure, leaning back against the side of the tub. His knees stick up out of the water, as do his shoulders. But what's important is covered and that's fine with him.

The bard wordlessly offers Lambert the soap. Then, Jaskier looks confused by Lambert's presence, in a way he hasn't before.

The Witcher is worried that something's wrong, and is proven correct, when Jaskier tries to dunk Lambert's head underwater. There isn't enough water to drown him, but even if there was, the bard doesn't push him very far. Not before Lambert breaks the surface of the water and sends a good bucket's worth over the sides.

Quickly shaking the bard's hold, he's up and spitting in three seconds flat.

"The fuck was that bard?" He asks, rubbing at his eyes.

Jaskier tilts his head. Like he's trying to remember something. Like trying to drown Lambert had been similar to what he was trying to do, but not quite right.

Not quite fucking right to Lambert either.

"M' supposed to wash your hair."

Lambert raises his brows in surprise.

"And who the fuck said that?"

Jaskier shrugs.

Maybe he used to wash Geralt's hair.

Which, if he did, he'll have to give his brother shit for that. Can't be arsed to wash his own fucking head? It's not enough that the bard had to deal with Pretty Boy's bitching and brooding, he had to wash his hair too?

Fucking cunt.

Whatever. He lets the bard commence with washing his hair, even though he can't stand Jaskier at his back. He'd rather keep an eye on him, but aside from his teeth, Lambert knows he is unarmed.

Honestly, it feels rather relaxing as Jaskier lathers soap into his curls. He's much more considerate rinsing Lambert's head the second time around.

He's done scrubbing his arms and legs by the time Jaskier finishes. Jaskier makes to wash his beard but the Witcher swats his hands away.

"I can do that bit. Just hurry up and get in 'fore the waters gone cold."

He's out of the tub, patting himself dry while the bard stands beside it, eyeing it warily as he undresses.

Lambert sorts through the clothes, finding which should fit him best when he realizes Jaskier hasn't gotten in yet. The bard is standing there, naked as the day he was born, unmoving.

Lambert sets the clothes aside, towel wrapped around his waist and his arms folded across his chest.

"You waiting for a written invitation?"

Jaskier jumps, pulled from whatever thoughts or memories the tub has clearly conjured in his mind. The bard turns to Lambert, hands anxiously fretting over one another.

"W-would you make sure I don't-

He stops, unsure.

Lambert drops his arms to his sides then, trying to appear less annoyed than he is. Something's not right. Just like with his hair.

Jaskier doesn't like the tub for some reason.

It isn't the water, Lambert can tell that much. He had no problem drinking straight out of the river just yesterday.

Lambert sighs.

"I'll make sure you don't drown."

Jaskier's body practically sags with relief. Whatever happened to him must've been bad if he instinctually knows not to trust tubs.

Lambert tugs on the trousers and makes his way to the chair set up beside the tub.

Jaskier's sat in the center of the tub, unwilling to touch any of the sides for longer than necessary. He's practically curled into himself, knees pulled up and arms wrapped tight around them.

Lambert doesn't know how he'll fucking wash himself if his hands are too busy keeping his knees from knocking into the wooden edges.

Snatching the soap up, Lambert takes up Jaskier's previous spot In the chair.

"This one time, Pige, you hear me? You're to bathe yourself in Kaer Morhen. And I ain't wiping no noses or arses. Your on your own for that, got it?"

Jaskier nods, very serious and solemn.

"Got it." He says, quieter than ever before.

Lambert sighs again.

"The fuck did you do to your head bard?" He wonders, idly lathering up soap while he speaks.

He's so unlike the bard they met last winter. That bard had been flaunting and peacocking all about the keep. He had pestered every wolf in Kaer Morhen about stories and wanted to know which songs they had heard of his on their travels.

Which, in Lambert's travels, he had heard quite a few. But he's never heard the bard sing in person. Only other bards paltry attempts at singing the songs of the "famed bard of the White Wolf".

But what he has heard was good. Even the shittiest players could sing his songs because the lyrics were what mattered most. Though the music oftentimes twang and tumbled, their voices sang his songs like they were singing for royalty.

Which Lambert knows Jaskier has done before.

He sang for one of the most ruthless bitches on the continent. Queen fucking Calanthe.

The bard's got balls.

Now they're rolling around, loose in his head.

Lambert makes quick work of washing the bard's hair. And when Jaskier makes no move to take up the soap and wash his body, Lambert grumbles as he plucks one of his arms up and starts scrubbing.

"When you get your marbles back, you're going to tell me what the fuck was wrong with this tub. Perfectly good bath here and you're almost halfway out of it. Here- no, the other arm." Lambert gripes.

Lambert's just barely started on the bard's back when he hears a faint sniffle. He stops, hands freezing where they are on the Jaskier's back.

Slowly, he leans forward, peering over Jaskier's shoulder to look at his face.

Just as he feared, there are tears in the bard's eyes. Fuck.

"Did I do something wrong, Pige?"

Jaskier shakes his head, resting his chin down onto one of his knees. He seemingly curls into himself further, making his shape even smaller.

Lambert stops bathing him then. He's not doing shit if the bard's literally weeping.

Jaskier seems to realize this and sobs a little louder.

"'M sorry puppy, I was just thinking that no one's going to feed the mice anymore."

Lambert frowns, confused for all of one second before he remembers the scampering little rodents in the prison. He shakes his head, he must be from a spring court to care this much about animals.

Granted, all fae cared for the lives in the forest. But the spring courts were responsible for waking those hibernating, and helping bring forth new life every year. It would make sense that Jaskier got attached to the little creatures in Cahir's dungeon.

He pats Jaskier on the back then and sets the soap down in front of him on the edge of the tub.

He stands, leaving the bard to wash the rest of his body on his own.

"They know how to scavenge, they won't starve, Pigeon. And they've got one another to rely on, the fucking infestation of them. They'll figure it out."

Jaskier finally looks up at him, eyes understanding and contemplating. Always curious, the fae. Seems Jaskier's no different.

"Like us?"

Lambert's got a shirt halfway over his head when the bard's question hits him.

They really are all they have right now. They're running from a literal army, trying to find refuge among the few friends and family that they have.

He might grumble and swat at the bard every now and again, but he knows he'd risk life and limb for the little shit. Not only does he owe the bard his life for getting them out of that Nilfgaardian shithole, but Jaskier's...

Well, he's a right fucking leech.

And maybe Lambert's grown attached.

He bets Aiden and Jaskier caught on like a house fire. And it's not hard to assume Eskel was similar. If not closer, since the two were imprisoned right next to each other. And Jaskier had said Eskel would allow him to play with his hair.

Eskel's rarely ever let anyone that close. Anyone that wasn't a Wolf. The bard must be important to him.

Lambert pulls his shirt on fully, looking at Jaskier and his big, wide eyes.

"Yeah Pige, like us."

Jaskier smiles, bright and brilliant and his eyes no longer seem to hold his previous glamour. Neither of them notice the small sprouts of flowers growing at the base of the tub. Little weeds, really, nothing too big or noticeable to Lambert's tired eyes.

"Now hurry up and wash your arse. I'll not have you waking me up just to shove me over."

As unpredictable as this bard is, it's the one Lambert's stuck with. And as begrudging as he is to admit it, he prefers this flighty nut happy.

And when Jaskier laughs, Lambert's never been so relieved to hear the sounds of bells.

Chapter Text

When they cross the borders into Kaedwen, Lambert is relieved.

There's at least two weeks of travel to the Killer. They're literally in the home stretch.

So, of course that's is when they encounter the first of Jaskier's mischief-seeking.

They're making good time, staying ahead of the turning weather. They've managed a few odd jobs through Aerdin and have successfully acquired some of the items on their must need list for the Killer. Jaskier has a cloak to help stave off the cold. Lambert's "found" a set of knives off of a pair of bandits that tried to rob them in their sleep. They've got water skins and even managed a bed roll. It's seriously been a challenge, but they've managed it thus far.

Which is why Lambert doesn't think it so bad of an idea to leave Jaskier alone in a tavern while he goes to check a possible hunt. He can't take anything major, obviously, he doesn't have his swords, potions, or armour. Honestly, he's hoping that this contract has already been picked up and/or completed. He just needs to find another Witcher.

There are only so many that travel this far North during the fall season. They're either Wolves or Coen.

He'd even settle for the Griffin. If Lambert saw Coen right now, he'd probably kiss the man.

They need help getting to Kaer Morhen. No matter the supplies Lambert liberates from bandits and thieves, it'll never be enough for the journey up the Killer. Thieves wouldn't be thieving if they had everything.

So, he leaves the bard with explicit instructions not to follow him or leave the tavern.

And when he comes back, the hunt a week old and long since solved, he comes back one griffin Witcher short. Or any other Witcher for that matter.

What awaits him at the tavern, though, that's something else entirely. Unfortunately, it's not something unfamiliar, because Lambert has seen his fair share of mobs.

He just wished he had more weapons or a potion to defend himself with.

When the townspeople run up to him, he's braced for impact. But they don't reach out to attack him. No. They reach out and drag him, practically pulling him right out of his boots.

"Witcher! You must slay the beast!" One man pulling his arm says.

"Please!" Another cries.

"It's right inside, we've locked the doors and were just about to light it, but Josef wanted to wait for you." The woman on his right explains.

Josef is the inn keeper. He probably didn't want the townspeople burning down his place of business. This tavern is probably all that he has.

He can't risk his livelihood, his home, this close to winter.

As Lambert squares his shoulders, he stalks past the villagers to where Josef is waiting. The inn keeper looks worried, practically scared shitless, Lambert would wager to guess.

Whatever it is that's inside must have frightened him to consider torching the place.

"What happened?"

Josef swallows, unable to look Lambert in the eyes. His hand trembles when he lifts it, pulling his hat from his head and squeezing it in a tight grip.

"I tried to stop them, I knew you were a Witcher, that you would have dealt with it before if it was really dangerous. But you hadn't and you supped with it. Shared a room with it-

Lambert's gut fucking drops.

He's talking about Jaskier. 

"What. Happened." He grits.

"T-the man, y-your travelling companion sang."

Lambert flinches. Apparently the villagers managed to lock Jaskier inside, so he hadn't disappeared. He hadn't abandoned Lambert in this town.

"Then what?"

"H-he was singing a song about a wolf and he just- he just changed. Took the form of one, right there in front of the fireplace. Everyone started screaming, Aeoluf had kept him back while everyone else made a run for it."

Lambert steps closer.

"Kept him back how?" He asks, voice dark and threatening. 

Josef swallows. "The fire poker."

Iron. Shit.

Lambert runs past Josef then. The door is blocked by wooden planks, but Lambert smashes through them and the door fairly easy.

He's panting, even though that hardly took any effort.

His eyes are frantically scanning the tavern, checking around the tables, and before the fireplace. But Jaskier is nowhere to be found.

"Fuck!" Lambert shouts, picking up a chair and throwing it at the wall.

It splinters apart with a crash but it's not enough to ease the terror and frustration burning inside his chest.

He can't blame these stupid fucking people for fearing a shape-shifter. Especially one that changed into a godsdamned wolf.

He told Jaskier to stay here. He should have specified in their room.

Or not to fucking sing. Singing has obviously only brought trouble. That's why Nilfgaard kidnapped Jaskier in the first place, for singing about Geralt of fucking Rivia.

Lambert is looking at another chair, contemplating tossing it too, when he hears a whimper from behind him.

He turns around so quickly that he nearly makes himself dizzy.

There, underneath one of the tables, closest to the wall, lies a miserable ball of fur. Lamber approaches quietly.

He can see a leg sticking out, but as soon as the Witcher gets close enough, that leg pulls itself in.

"Jaskier?" He calls.

Slowly, so as not to appear like a threat, Lambert kneels down, in front of the table.

He gets a better look at the bard then. And he looks downright pitiful.

There's a patch of dark, matted fur at his side, probably where he was stuck by the poker. Jaskier's got his two front paws folded over his snout and his eyes are fiercely kept shut.

"Pige," he tries again, softer. "It's me, Lamb. Your puppy."

He doesn't particularly care for that nickname, he heard plenty of that at home, being the youngest of the wolves at Kaer Morhen and all. But for Jaskier? He'll be a fucking goose if it manages to coax the bard out.

This close, Lambert can smell the pain and confusion. He knows Jaskier was probably just having fun. That he didn't know people feared creatures like him. He probably forgot, as he did most other things.

Jaskier whimpers, curling into a tight, trembling ball.

"I know you can hear me. I want you to know that I'm not mad. But we've got to go before those people come back."

Jaskier opens one eye.

"Can you walk?"

The wolf nods his head, but Lambert knows he's not entirely sure himself. But he's listening, and that's a good start.

"That's alright if you can't. Got Witcher strength, so I should be able to carry your fluffy arse." He jokes.

Jaskier has stopped shaking. He moves his paws from over his snout and slowly noses his way to Lambert's outstretched hand.

Whatever he smells must convince him that Lambert really is who he says, because he slowly starts crawling out from under the table then.

Lambert nods.

"That's good Pige. I'm gonna go grab our stuff from upstairs. You wait by the backdoor, alright? We can't risk running into the villagers up front."

Jaskier nods, then hangs his head low, ashamed. Lambert ruffles the fur on the top of his head in consolation.

"It's alright pup, we just have to remember that they're not like us. We can't show them who we really are. But I promise that if we get out of here, you can change into as many things as you like."

Jaskier picks his head up at that, tail gently swaying from side to side.

Lambert jerks his head towards the backdoor.

"Go on. I'll be right back."

They keep to the woods after that. And it takes Jaskier a full two days before he feels safe enough to shift out of his wolf form. When he's human again, he's drawn in, quiet.

"They liked my singing..." He practically whispers. Lambert pats his arm.

"I'm sure they did Pige."

At least Lambert knows now that Jaskier can change into something much more equipped for the mountains.

And he won't be needing that cloak with all that fur, so Lambert can wear it instead.

It's not the best travel he's ever journeyed, but it's also not the worst. Though, after that, it's like a flip has switched inside the bard's head. And since he remembers how to shift, he does. Sometimes into multiple different things a day.

It was amazing in the beginning. But it's been a week, and Lambert is slowly loosing his patience.

Jaskier, funnily enough, likes changing into birds most. Lambert absolutely choked on his own laughter the first time Jaskier changed into a pigeon.

The birds he can deal with. And the wolf. Or the dog. Or the many, many cats he's tried. Even the fucking mule was fine.

At least that got Lambert a few minutes off of his feet with that one. But now this is just getting ridiculous.

There's a monkey on his shoulder, playing with his hair.

"Bard, I swear, if you don't get off my head in the next second, I will eat you. Whatever shape that ends up being."

Jaskier reaches up and grabs onto a low-hanging branch. Using the length of his arms to swing from the branches overhead. He starts making these wild noises too, real batshit sounds that Lambert knows he's only doing to piss him off.

It's like the bard enjoys driving Lambert mad.

"Two legs. Right fucking now." He barks.

If he had his medallion, it'd probably be quaking with the potent magic in the air. But he doesn't, hasn't since those Nilfgaard cunts first captured him.

Vesemir will give him a stern talking to. At least Eskel will help him make a new one. Geralt won't have room to talk. He once lost his medallion and his horse, to a succubus. The same succubus which Eskel later reasoned with (fucked) in order to get those things back.

Looking over his shoulder, he's unsurprised when the bard isn't a bard at all. But a fucking bird. A giant one, at that. A big feathery bastard with long legs. Longer than Lambert's for shitsure.

Jaskier rushes up to Lambert's side, and just to rile him up further, pecks the Witcher's head with his great bill. 

Lambert hisses out, rubbing the spot first before reaching up and wrapping an arm around the bard's neck.

The bard flaps his wings uselessly, trying to wrestle himself free.

"You're a right proper shit, d'you know that?"

He can feel Jaskier shift underhand, body twisting in an unnatural way. Body shrinking back into his original form. An annoying little fop.

"Lambie, I wasn't finished! I had many more to try." He pouts, then his eyes brighten. "Do you think I could turn into anything?"

Lambert own eyes roll, his arm loosely slung around the bard's shoulders now.

"I think you should give it a rest for now. We're nearing Leyda, that's our second to last stop before Kaer Morhen."

Jaskier weasels his way out from under the Witcher's hold and trots ahead of him with a skip to his step.

"What's Kaer Morhen?" He asks, a great big smile on his face.

"The home of the wolf Witchers. You've been there before." He explains, knowing already that the bard has forgotten.

Perhaps that means he gave away Kaer Morhen's location so as not to reveal any knowledge of Ciri. He must really care for her. If Geralt's not grateful, Lambert's going to sock him right in the fucking nose.

With how long the bard spent in Geralt's company, it's a miracle he still remembers how to breathe in and out. Practically every one of his memories was tied up in that big, dumb fuck. Perhaps he should knock Geralt over the head just because of that.

Poor bard probably deserves some petty revenge.

"Will the wolves like me?"

Lambert slows at that. They hadn't much liked him the first time he came up the mountain, following a reluctant Ciri, and without Geralt. They had been wary at first. Worried he had somehow managed to kidnap the princess, getting rid of Geralt in the process, and coax her into confessing the location of their keep.

But Jaskier showed them all within days of their meeting, how unlikely that was. Ciri was a more skilled swordsman blindfolded than Jaskier was at all. He didn't seem to care much for the training grounds. And wasn't very much of a help during the attack with Voleth Meir.

That was another reason why the wolves hadn't much cared for him. He was weak.

But, having witnessed some of the shit the bard had to deal with, Lambert knows now that that's far from the truth.

Jaskier wasn't weak. He wasn't useless. And he would have the trust of at least three Witchers, come their arrival at the keep.

Lambert prayed that Aiden was there. That Vesemir let him stay.

If what Jaskier said in prison was true, Aiden was injured. He wouldn't be able to fend for himself on the path. He'd need to relearn how to do everything with his vision so impaired.

If Aiden wasn't there, then it wouldn't matter how many Witchers trusted Jaskier, because Lambert would turn them right back around.

"The wolves will shut the fuck up if I say so. And if you keep that monkey shit out of Vesemir's castle, you and I just might survive this winter."

Jaskier sends a mischievous smile over his shoulder. His eyes are blue, irises swallowing the whites completely.

Lambert sighs.

It will surely be a winter to remember.

Chapter Text

Leyda brought them packaged meats in exchange for mucking out a few stalls. And Jaskier was able to score them a round of hard cheese by singing in the ale house. This time, under Lambert's watchful eye, with strict instructions to remain mortal.

Or, whatever the fae-equivalent of a man was. Seeing as fae weren't mortal.

How old was the bard?

Lambert ignores that question, trying to remain focused on the next part of their journey. In Ard Carraigh, they'll need boots. And Lambert would like to try and find a fur or two for Jaskier when he's not shifted into a mountain-appropriate creature.

Thinking on that, he'll have to remind the bard not to shift into a hirikka, or a wyvern, or any of the other bastards prone to roosting in the mountains near their keep. Jaskier's question from a few days ago is scratching at the back of his mind.

Can he change into anything?

He's only thinking to warn the bard away from monsters so as not to ignite Lambert's Witcher instincts to hunt. He'd rather not accidentally kill the bard after having dragged him so far.

However, if he could turn into anything, Lambert should have let him continue shifting that day. He's pretty sure a dragon would travel much faster than their two legs can.

Whatever, a dragon would only bring more trouble to the keep. It's better they arrive on foot.

Ard Carraigh is pretty lively when they arrive. Jaskier seems pleased at being surrounded by so many people. Lambert doesn't understand why because Jaskier's been downright wary since he got stabbed back at that tavern.

The fall harvest seems to have brought in a good hearty supply, and coin is frequently being exchanged for goods. Jaskier is looking at something at a nearby stall, something that Lambert hardly sends a passing glance to before he's pulling Jaskier in the direction of a cobbler.

"Alright bard, need to get you a proper pair of boots for making it up the mountain."

Jaskier isn't looking at him, eyes too focused on whatever it was that originally caught his attention back at that stall. "Thought I was gonna be a puppy." He frowns.

Lambert looks around them quickly, trying to see if anybody heard him.

"You can be, you will, but you'll have to change back the last two miles. Ves will have someone standing watch, they'd notice if a wolf was following me." Lambert explains, turned towards the bard to help conceal their odd conversation.

Jaskier finally looks up at him. He nods, but it doesn't really seem like he was paying attention. The Witcher just rolls his eyes and continues on toward the cobbler.

Inside is much warmer than out, and it smells like leather and fire, like it always does. This is one of Lambert's favorite cobblers on the continent. Namely because Ermenhilde isn't an arsehole to Witchers. She even gives him a discount, since he saved her life ten years ago.

When she sees him, she looks surprised, but smiles at him nonetheless. Ermenhilde sidesteps her workbench in order to squeeze him into a strong embrace.

"You're a little early Bertie." She chuckles.

Lambert nods against her, pulling apart to explain.

"Got caught up in quite a bit of trouble down in Toussaint. Met a couple of righteous bastards that pilfered my shit. 'Fraid I'm going to finally have to call in that favor."

Ermenhilde nods, sending a careful look over to Jaskier.

The bard's keeping himself entertained with the display of shoes and boots on the wall to their right, unconcerned with the Witcher or the cobbler.

"Don't mind him, he's a friend. And part of the favor. Need a pair of boots fit for making the journey back home. For the both of us."

Ermenhilde sucks in a breath through her teeth. Lambert knows it's a steep ask. Two pairs of walking boots. He's hoping she's had as much traffic from the harvest as the stalls outside. Hopefully she can afford to supply their needs.

If not... Jaskier may just have to remain shifted. Perhaps he could shift into something small, something that Lambert could hold.

A crash sounds behind them and both Ermenhilde and Lambert turn to see Jaskier surrounded by a pile of shoes from the display. Lambert takes in a slow breath, holding it just until he has a better grip on his own tongue.

He'll swear at the bard later.

For now, he turns back to Ermenhilde, eyes still asking.

Ermenhilde sighs.

"I'll see what I can do, but I'll need three days. And your friend will need to pick those up."

Lambert cracks a small smile and holds out his hand in agreement.

"Get moving Pige. You heard the lady."

Once they've straightened up Ermenhilde's shop and she's taken measurements of their feet, they head back to the market. She gave him a good lead on a possible job, seeing as they might be here for the next few days.

They'll need food and lodging. And coin.

"Alright bard, what say we pop you right here in the square for a few songs, see what we can scrounge up, while I go talk to someone about chopping firewood?"

Jaskier's eyes flicker on Lambert's face for one second. They're gone and back before Lambert can question it.

He claps the bard on the shoulder.

"Alright, now tell me. What are the rules?"

The bard sighs, exasperated. "No puppies."

Lambert stands, unimpressed with his arms crossed. "That's not the rule. Get it right or you're sleeping on the floor of whatever room we fetch tonight."

Jaskier whines then, petulant.

"No changing."

"No changing into what?"

"Anything fun," he grumbles, much to Lambert's amusement.

"No changing into anything whatsoever. Not if it's in your song or if one passes by, either in person or if it crosses your mind." Lambert corrects.

He's learned from past mistakes to clarify, clarify, clarify.

"And no opening doorways. Keep the singing to a respectable tone. This place doesn't mind Witchers or shitheads like dwarves. So don't go getting us kicked out because you scared the locals."

Jaskier has his own arms crossed now, mimicking Lambert for lack of anything better to do.

"No doorways."

Lambert nods, satisfied.

"Alright. Good." He claps Jaskier on the back once more and leaves him to it.

It barely takes him an hour to cut a cord's worth of firewood. He managed to cut down another tree and started on that one too before the inn keeper let's him know that he's more than earned a meal for the night.

"Need a room." Lambert says, in lieu of stopping.

The inn keeper seems to think to himself for a moment before waving Lambert on. "Keep cutting and we'll talk."

Lambert sighs. "Keep cutting" can mean anywhere from another hour of work to chopping down the whole fucking forest. Humans are so fucking vague. Would be the worst thing about them had they not sacked Kaer Morhen. Or stoned him after a hunt. Or spit in his food. Or the worst of all, shorted him pay.

Aiden would say his priorities were askew, but, then again, Aiden never worried about coin. He stole what he was owed if it was not paid, in-full, the first time.

Because of the wolf medallion he usually wore around his throat, Lambert couldn't afford to get caught thieving. The continent has very little patience for wolf Witchers since Blaviken.

As Lambert eyes the axe in his hands he thinks, I'm not wearing my medallion right now.

He huffs.

Not worth it right now. Not with the risk of Nilfgaard, even this far north. And Jaskier.

He can't risk the bard's safety over trivial shit as pick-pocketing.

Though, apparently Jaskier hadn't understood that message when Lambert finds him later.

Sure, he knows what a risk it is leaving a fucking feral fae alone to their own mischief, but Jaskier likes singing. He oftentimes will sing for hours. On and on with no other thoughts to get in the way.

Except, this time, there evidently was something else on his mind. And now it's in his fucking pocket.

"Just- give- me- it!" Lambert struggles, trying to pin the bard to the ground.

"No! It's mine!" He yells.

They're out from the square, away from prying eyes or listening ears, so no one can tell him off for sitting on the bard.

He's not getting thrown in the stocks for a stupid fucking necklace. Whoever he stole it from either hasn't noticed that it's gone missing, or Jaskier somehow compelled them into giving it away. Either way, it definitely fucks with the likelihood of their staying in this town if he gets caught.

"You can't keep it. You didn't pay for it."

"Yes I did!"

Lambert slows at that.

He did set the bard up to sing for coin. It's not a far-fetched idea that he could have used coin to get the damned thing. But Lambert knows Jaskier has a way of getting around lying. By lying indirectly.

"Did you pay for it with coin?"

At that, Jaskier stops fighting. The Witcher curses, he stands them both upright then, holding the bard by the shoulders tightly.

"How'd you get the necklace Pige?"

Jaskier's eyes flicker from green to blue. Irises growing and shrinking. It sets Lambert on edge.

He fucking did something, that much is glaringly obvious.

"I paid the madam a compliment."

The Witcher nearly shakes the bard, growling in frustration.

"That's not the fucking same, and you know it! You have to pay for it with actual money."

Jaskier's battle for control ends with his big blue eyes out, round and staring oh so sadly up at Lambert.

"No. Don't you fucking dare try to cry your way out of this."

It hasn't worked the last three times he's tried it and it won't work now.

"We're going right back to whichever stall you stole it from and giving it back. This is the last stop Jaskier. We can't get run out. We need more supplies if we're going to make it up the mountain-

"Ugh! The mountain, the mountain, everything with you is always about the mountain! Well, I don't want to go!"

Lambert stares at the bard, struck dumb at that declaration.

"What?"

Jaskier wrenches himself free, probably fairly easily since Lambert's so caught up on what he just said.

The bard turns his back on Lambert, arms crossed and chin up.

"I don't want to go."

"And why the hell not?"

"I don't know."

Lambert's eyebrows shoot up into his hairline. At least the bard's honest. But that's not good enough. Not right now. This has been the goal for weeks. If Jaskier truly didn't want to go, he would have said so sooner.

Gods knew Jaskier rarely held his tongue when something displeased him.

He slowly reaches out a hand and places it gently onto the bard's shoulder. He doesn't bother turning the bard to face him, he knows it won't matter.

"I need to get home Pige. Aiden needs me. My stupid fucking brothers need me. And whatever you gave them, you need back."

Jaskier's chin has come down, his shoulders slowly sagging.

"But I don't want them back." He admits quietly.

"It doesn't matter whether you want them back or not, this ain't living, Lark. You're half mad without your memories. You don't even know your own fucking name."

Jaskier's arms drop at that. He turns to Lambert, his mouth pulled into a frown.

"I like 'Pige'."

Lambert sighs, unable to leave the bard standing there any longer before pulling him into a tight embrace.

"I know bard, but the Witchers need you to be 'Jaskier' again. You're who takes care of us. Makes sure we get paid fairly. Treated justly. You can't do that if you don't remember why you started singing for us in the first place."

Jaskier seems to really consider his words before speaking. Weighing the pros and cons of going to Kaer Morhen. But Lambert knows how to fight dirty, and adds, "Your Wolf will be there. Don't you want to see him again?"

Eskel will no doubt want to see the bard. Especially if he and Aiden were forced to leave him behind in the dungeon. A blush creeps onto Jaskier's cheeks at that and Lambert laughs.

"See? It won't be so bad."

Jaskier sighs, pulling the necklace from his pocket of his own free will. Together, they look down at it.

Lambert has to admit, it's nice. He doesn't wear much jewelry, aside from his medallion. And the necklace that Aiden gave him three years ago. He'll need to convince Aiden to get him another since one of those Nilfgaardian shitheels stole it, alongside his medallion.

"I still don't understand how that doesn't constitute as payment. She said 'thank you'."

Lambert shrugs. He knows there are rules and etiquette when it comes to interacting with the fae. But they've been over this. He's supposed to be pretending that he's human.

When they come across his fae instincts, Lambert has to expressly explain them and then tell the bard not to use them. He can't imagine how hard that must be for the bard, he couldn't imagine ignoring his own instincts. Trying not to listen to the sounds he can hear so easily with his Witcher senses. Hiding his full strength so as not to be discovered.

It'd be worse if he had no memories as to why it all happened.

"Tell you what, I'll take the necklace back, you just tell me where you got it from."

Jaskier passes over the chain, albeit reluctantly, and points.

They just have to make it two more days without getting run out, jailed, or murdered.

The Witcher sighs once more and heads off in the direction at the end of Jaskier's finger.

Chapter Text

Their boots couldn't have come at a better time.

Lambert's worked about every odd job he could find. Chopping wood, catching game, and retrieving the bucket from the well. That job had been particularly rewarding as he got to dangle the bard down the well like bait.

He's just finished helping the blacksmith when Jaskier comes skipping into the forge.

It's hot inside, namely because of the fire, so he's working without a shirt. He's actually glad for it when Jaskier comes hopping in, leaking red juices from... fruit? Smells like fruit.

He saddles up to the Witcher a shoves a slice into his face, getting juices all over Lambert's beard and chest hair.

While before, he simply wanted a bath to wash off the sweat from the forge. Now he needs one to wash off this shit.

"Pige, what'd I tell you bout taking things from strangers?" He asks, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand once he's done chewing.

The fruit is nice, he has to admit. Red and sweet, but not too sweet. He's just worried about where Jaskier got it from.

Bomani, the smith, is chuckling to himself at Jaskier's antics. He's glad someone finds the bard amusing.

"A very lovely lady let me have some after I braided her mare's hair."

"Oh really? Did she ask you to braid her horse's hair?" Lambert asks.

Jaskier's smile grows.

"No, she did not. And when I told her what a travesty that was, for her horse to go with hair so pallid among the fashionable city-goers here, she laughed."

Jaskier pauses, tapping his chin with one finger as he thinks to himself, "don't know why she thought that was funny. It's not dignified in court, to have one's hair ungroomed like that. I probably saved that mare's reputation today."

Lambert rolls his eyes.

"Yes, I'm sure that fucking horse was all torn up about it. Not being with the latest fashion. Suppose we should find the poor wretch a cap to hide their shame?"

Jaskier's eyes brighten and Lambert sighs.

"I'm kidding, Pige."

Jaskier folds his arms over his chest with a pout.

"Was a good idea." He mutters.

"Horses don't like hats. Trust me on this one bard."

He sighs, thoroughly put out, and gestures for Lambert to hand back the rest of the uneaten fruit.

It was kind of the bard to share, as messy of an affair that was, Lambert hadn't noticed just how hungry he was until now. He looks to Bomani and the smith waves him on.

"Many thanks Witcher. Take your pick of blades from that table over there." He gestures to the far off wooden table beside a barrel of coal.

It's not his best, Lambert can see that much. But despite all the heavy lifting and sweat-inducing work he did today, it's still not worth a fine silver sword, crafted for battle. For hunting.

But Lambert's done more with less and takes his pick through the cheaper steel.

Jaskier is busy pawing through the coal and Lambert is not looking forward to helping him clean later. He'd tell him to stop, but there's no point.

They'll argue, Jaskier will try to pout his way through it, Lambert won't give two shits about his whining, and then they'll be on their way. He's used to the cycle by now. The bard's just got to work it out of his system.

But sometimes, Lambert just doesn't have the will to fight him. As far as he's concerned, the bard's quiet, he's within sight, and he's not causing any trouble.

"This one alright?" Lambert asks, holding a short sword over his head for Bomani's inspection.

"Fine by me."

Lambert reaches over for the back of Jaskier's shirt and pulls him along, ignoring his squawking and the coals he sends scattering.

They're on their way back to the tavern, both in desperate need of a wash, when Ermenhilde's apprentice calls for them from a few houses away.

Jaskier waves excitedly back at her in return, jumping in place.

"Oh delightful! The boots are done."

Lambert steers them in the direction of the cobbler's place instead. He's got his shirt tossed back on, half done up and half open. The cooler air outside is doing wonders for his flushed skin.

They've got everything they need now in order to make the trip. It's just the starting of it that makes Lambert worry.

He once made the journey with a broken leg. He'd had a horse then, so it wasn't so bad. It was the dismounting part that really fucking sucked. Having to stop and camp for the night only to dread getting down. And starting again, at dawn, and figure out how to get back up on his horse, one-legged.

And another time, he was coming from a hunt at the foot of the mountain, dosed up heavily on potions. The toxicity running through his veins had made everything so much more difficult. It felt like every step he took shook the ground.

But he managed just fine both times.

But, then again, he was alone. Both times.

Now he's got to get two people up the mountain. And one of them is Jaskier.

Jaskier who's walking on his hands in order to preserve the integrity of his new boots.

Now he's really not looking forward to their baths.

Chapter Text

The first day proves uneventful.

They leave the inn with their things and stop by Ermenhilde's. It's early, almost too early to keep company and maintain a polite disposition. Lambert doesn't take up too much of her time though.

He shares some of the gold they've made through work and song, and offers one more round of thanks before making their leave.

Ard Carraig was good to them. He'll be sure to tell Vesemir and his brothers as much.

Jaskier is quiet at first, still in the process of waking up to make mischief.

Though, by the time the sun's sitting high between the clouds, he's downright chipper. So much so, that he starts singing.

As I wandered over the far-famed Blue Mountains

I met with a Witcher whose coin he was counting

I first bade him 'morning,' then offered an ale.

When he drank up his fill (three tankards full)

He spoke of a great beast with a big black bill.

He's sung this song twice now, and Lambert's contemplating plugging his ears.

How the fuck did Geralt stand this?

The other songs he's sung, thus far, haven't been nearly this annoying.

Though, if he's being quite honest with himself, it's only annoying for how catchy it is. Even when the bard takes a break to play at being a goat, headbutting Lambert's legs into moving faster, the Witcher finds himself humming the song.

Just when Lambert thinks it's safe, that he's finally focused on something else long enough to forget the blasted song, Jaskier picks right back up wherever he left off.

A black bird he hunted, w hose voice did not sing

White Flame came belching from whence it screamed

We'd many to drink, so I thought nothing of it

Till come next morning, I fell down the far-famed mountains

Pushed by a black bird whose voice was taunting.

Black bird cries, black bird screams

White Flame grows and haunts my dreams.

Just as I began to weep, whimper, pray

The Witcher came and wrenched up his beak

A bomb he did throw down the great monsters gullet

And two strong hands held till he swallow'd it

Black bird cries, black bird screams

White Flame dies and black bird dreams

He has no idea how Jaskier keeps track of his lyrics, just that he does. He's only sung this song before, once, in front of a crowd. He mainly sings it for Lambert's sake.

The crowd in Ard Carraig had picked up the bard's message fairly quick, a somber air had filled the ale house then.

They did enjoy his bellowing voice as he hastened the description of the battle. Which Lambert can certainly understand.

That's what's stuck in his fucking head right now.

Damn bard.

Now he knows why Toss a Coin is still in circulation despite having been twenty-odd years since he first sang it.

Sure, he heard it enough times over the last two decades to know the words. But witnessing the bard actually sing it, even when it's just the two of them, Jaskier breathes a life into the song in a way no one else can.

He's prancing about now, singing still, even on the steadily rising incline of this bloody mountain.

Lambert fears that this song is going to be stuck in his head forever when the bard suddenly cuts himself off.

The Witcher's head jerks up, looking around for danger. Nothing shuts the bard up so quickly as a threat.

Yet, when he looks, there's nothing there.

That is, except for a particularly feathery bird.

And he doesn't mean Jaskier.

No, the bard's squatting before a bright bird, cooing at its colorful tail feathers. Lambert opens his mouth to encourage the bard to keep moving when he suddenly speaks.

"Oh? Well, we'll be sure to take care of it."

Lambert blinks.

Did he just-

"What a lovely name," he says, turning to Lambert then.

"Puppy! Come meet-

Jaskier chirps a series of sounds then.

Sounds that the Witcher has no hopes of ever interpreting. But that proves it. The bard can speak with animals.

Lambert steps up beside the bard and looks down at the red and blue bird at their feet. It looks up at him and tilts its head before turning and quickly flying off, back into the trees from where it once came.

Jaskier sighs dreamily.

"What a nice fellow. You know, I wish you could talk as kindly as-

Again, he chirps, leaving Lambert hanging in utter confusion.

Jaskier stands, adjusting his pack and continuing on as if nothing happened.

It takes another second for the bard's words to hit him, then Lambert's stomping right after him.

"Oi bard! Come back here!"

*      *      *

The next few days pass in similar fashion. Jaskier sings, they stop for water, and Jaskier sings some more.

He doesn't speak to every creature that they pass, though the ones he does always have something helpful to say.

The first one, that red and blue feathered twat apparently caught sight of a fallen tree along their path.

It hadn't taken them long to move it, seeing as Lambert was plenty strong enough to do it on his own. Though, Jaskier's sitting on it hadn't helped him move any faster.

The next animal they cross paths with is a prickly little bastard. And Lambert does mean that literally.

The little shit had toddled into their camp one evening, apparently cold and wishing to share in the warmth of their fire. To which Jaskier had readily agreed.

Lambert, however, wasn't sure if they should let a creature literally wearing tiny blades upon its back, sit so closely.

While he was sharpening his new sword, Lambert had accidentally bumped the back of his hand against the creature's quills.

Again, he's been tortured and thrashed about by giant monsters, but that had fucking hurt.

If they weren't so helpful, Lambert would tell the bard to tell his friends to fuck right off.

The next morning, his hand is healed and that prick who poked him is gone. Jaskier is a little put-out at not being able to say farewell, but his sadness doesn't stay long when he starts singing again.

Just as Lambert thought, this was proving to be a long trip.

Chapter Text

The nights are cold. The ground absorbs all the heat from Lambert's body as soon as he lays down.

No furs laid beneath his bedroll can staunch it. Fire helps, but he doesn't light them unless they're in a cave because they attract both beasts and men.

Jaskier tends to sleep shifted, so he's protected by layers of fur and fat. When he notices Lambert's discomfort that night, he doesn't hesitate to crawl into the Witcher's bedroll.

The shape he's taken today, and is still in tonight, is a fucking wolf. He stands almost above Lambert's hip when they're side by side. It's a little intimidating.

He's never seen one so close before, at least... one that wasn't hungry and looking for (what it thought was) an easy meal. The fur is incredibly soft and would probably make for a fantastic barrier against the cold. Whether as a coat or cloak.

Just as he thinks that, Jaskier lays down right on top of him.

The Witcher wheezes beneath his sudden weight.

"Off- He coughs.

Jaskier grumbles at first, unwilling to move until Lambert has to shove him over. When they're laying beside on another, Jaskier burrows himself beneath Lambert's arm and blanket.

"You'd better not shed, otherwise I'll have your coat. It'd make a nice rug for my room back in Kaer Morhen."

Jaskier playfully nips at his forearm (his largest teeth are nearly as long as Lambert's index finger). Resting his chin across Lambert's chest, he rumbles soothingly. The Witcher pets his neck and quickly joins him in slumber.

The next morning, Jaskier surprises him by not shifting back to his wild fae self. That means it's getting colder. Too cold for human skin.

Which is good.

Means they're getting closer to the top.

That just means that Jaskier cannot speak to fill the void of the Blue Mountains. The silence, while nice at first, is becomming steadily more unbearable.

The bard still barks and growls, grumbles, and even howls (much to the Witcher's displeasure). But it's not the same as him asking Lambert what color he thought flowers bled. Or how long a mouse might be able to hold a note. Or what other shoes a horse might wear.

He finds the mundane air around them...dull.

Dare he say it, he's bored.

The morning passes by just fine. Lambert hardly even notices how quiet it is when they have to go off trail to avoid an oncoming rock slide.

And when they stop for lunch, Jaskier runs off to hunt while Lambert starts a small fire. Soon, he's too busy skinning rabbits to notice the bard still hasn't shifted back.

Well- he's noticed. It's just been more of something at the back of his mind. In his peripheral, but not his direct line of sight. But now it's been six hours and Jaskier hasn't said a single word and the silence is suddenly suffocating.

So Lambert starts talking.

Of his own fucking volition.

And the bard listens.

He talks about Aiden, about how Wolf and Cat Witchers don't get along. He talks about why. He tells funny stories about Eskel getting his hand stuck trying to catch a squirrel in the keep.

And he talks about his father.

That's always been a funny topic to talk about with anyone. He and Aiden have only shared a few words on the matter.

But, something about the silent company makes saying hard things...easier.

Lambert can't really say why. Just that he's telling the bard things he thought he'd never share with anyone he didn't consider family.

The sun is setting on their sixth night of traveling, and Lambert is looking for a suitable place to camp when all seven hells break loose.

He's too busy wondering why the bard has gone silent (silent-er) to notice everything else in the forest has too.

Jaskier stops walking suddenly, and Lambert turns to ask him what the fuck his problem is when he hears it.

The groans of a leshy.

His eyes first flit to the sky, checking the moon and swearing when he sees that it's full. The leshy will have complete power over any nearby creatures. Which could very will include a shifted Jaskier.

"Bard RUN!" He shouts, pulling his steel sword and lighting it before he even sees the monster.

Lambert can't risk tiring it out, he's not strong enough to take this creature on alone. But he might be able to buy the bard some time.

"Head east, the keep will come after the narrow path-

Jaskier snarls, but Lambert's too busy checking the trees, trying to decipher in the dark which one is sentient.

"Jaskier, go!"

The moon casts a glow on the naked branches overhead, Lambert turns in a wide circle, examining each and every piece of bark within his line of sight. The bard has run off, as Lambert bade, and he's relieved. That's one less thing for the Witcher to worry about.

The earth crunches as roots begin slithering through the dirt. Lambert waves his flaming sword against their approach.

"Come on you bastard! Show yourself!"

The woods begin to chitter and chatter with life as deer are pulled under the leshy's thrall. He just barely manages to dodge the antlers of a stag when the line of trees finally breaks.

There it is.

It's huge. Quite possibly the biggest fucking leshy that he's ever seen. It's then that Lambert finally catches the antlers sprouting from the monster's head.

An ancient leshy.

Lambert closes his eyes. He has faced death many times. Most times he felt he had the upperhand. Or that he could fight his way free. But not now.

It feels as if death were standing at his side, a hand gently grasping his shoulder, a warning of what is to come.

Lambert's heart twists. He was so close.

If only he could have seen Aiden one last time.

The leshy stretches out its arm and Lambert raises his sword.

Chapter Text

Splintered wood and ripped off bark scatter the ground around him.

He's burned more limbs on this fucking bastard than he has logs in the winter. He's been kicked, hit, and scratched by all of the animals that were within the leshy's reach, but Lambert sent them running with a couple blasts of igni.

He's panting, moon now high above the trees. The leshy is at its most powerful.

And it shows.

The vines are unrelenting, tearing through everything that Lambert throws at it until he's force to shield himself with quen. The yellow of the shield distorts as the leshy swings one of his great arms down.

The weight of the impact against his shield is enough to send him to his knees. With grit teeth and a hearty yell, Lambert pushes up against its weight, sending it staggering back a couple of steps.

"That the best you can do you thrice-fucked whore?"

The limb that swings at him then comes from behind, completely taking him by surprise (and off his feet). Dropping both sword and shield, Lambert hits the ground with a grunt. His side aches, and he's slower getting to his feet.

Too slow to stop the second vine that shoots at him with icy precision. Falling onto his back, he casts another, weaker, quen. This one is easily shattered by the leshy. Lambert raises his arms to protect himself, but only succeeds in giving the beast another target.

The bone of his right arm protests as the leshy releases a volley of hits from its multiple appendages. Blood pours freely beneath his layers and lips.

"Can't even- wait for me- to get- back on- my feet- you- cheating cunt-

Something in his chest rattles, shaken loose by the leshy's attack. It might very well be his heart as it beats faster than Witcherly possible. Slamming against his ribcage, mocking mortal men as it tries to beat like theirs.

If he had any potions... this might not be so bad.

His arms fall to his sides, exposing his most vulnerable parts to the monster overhead. There's a high-pitched ringing in his ears. The ground is cold and unfeeling, teeming with his blood as he awaits the leshy's final strike.

When its arm is raised, high and mighty, the trunk of its body jolts.

Bright orange light swells before the Witcher, casting a yellow glow around the ancient leshy. It dances to and fro, mouth split open as it sings. Its song sounds gutteral, raw. Nothing like the bard's music.

If only he could think of one of Jaskier's songs now.

Perhaps he wouldn't feel so adrift... so... alone.

Sluggishly blinking his eyes one more time, a shadow overtakes him, and he thinks that he sees his lover.

Melitele must be real.

*      *      *

Kaer Morhen, after Voleth Meir 

After everything that happened in Kaer Morhen with Voleth Meir and Ciri, Jaskier knew Geralt would leave. He'd take his daughter and his... Yennefer, and go. Leaving Jaskier behind once more to pick up the pieces of his shattered heart, life, or lute alone.

The day the Witcher leaves, Jaskier does too. The bard doesn't wish to linger any longer in Geralt's home than necessary. Though, after Rience burned his hand, there's not much more of a bard still in him.

It will heal. His wounds always do. Especially the ones inflicted by natural elementals. But that doesn't mean that he will forget.

He wordlessly wishes the Witchers goodbye before beginning the trek down the mountain.

He could go home. His real home. Beyond the coast in Redania, to the isle hidden behind the fog, where Manannán rules. Sailing on the waves of storms that drown mortals and monsters alike.

They were Fae, just like their brothers and sisters on the continent, but not, at the same time. Where their land-bound brothers frolicked and found mischief among the trees and meadows, Manannán's children found mischief at sea and on the shore. They danced on sinking ships and drank the wine of drowning men. They pushed and pulled the tide, covering the creatures under the sand, protecting them from the ones in the sky.

They mocked the mermaids and sirens by swimming in their waters just as easily.

But most importantly, they made music.

Manannán played the harp so beautifully that he could charm anyone to sleep. Even the most colicky of babes or the wildest of beasts. That is how they came to be on an island far off at sea. Manannán had once been a creature of the contient, of the Summer court, when one day a beast tore through the forests of his people. No charms or spells could get the monster to calm. No mortal blade could kill it, many had already died.

They were desparate.

But Manannán, who was weary of his brothers and sisters, made a deal with the queen, that should he put the beast to rest, he would be given free reign of the mists at sea, where he could live and listen to the music of his most beloved children.

His deal was accepted and Manannán had put the beast to sleep with the music from his harp. And he took his children to Redania's shores, where they soon danced across the seas, skipping like stones until they came upon an island.

Jaskier had been born there, surrounded by music and love and all he could hope to desire. But beyond the shores and through the mist, he dreamed of the people he might meet on the continent.

So, for a song, he had earned the right to traipse across the water, and to the coast of Redania.

There, he met cousins upon cousins, kin of every shape and size, and first learned about mortals.

He danced at halls, sang for the queen of the Summer court, and finally gathered the courage to leave the Fae territory. With his lute strapped to his back and determination writ on his face, he embarked on a journey across Redania.

He immersed himself in the world of humans, pretended to be human as well. That had been one of the hardest lessons to learn.

Turns out humans don't like things with eyes like his, and were frightened of sharp teeth. Apparently, they found it unsettling and could easily detect his inhumanity with just one look.

So he curved out his teeth and muted the wonder and craze of his eyes. And gave himself a new name.

Jaskier.

Easy to remember and lovely to say. Which the humans did as his music grew. He learned the mortal ways of notes and saw more instruments than ever before in Oxenfurt. Jaskier couldn't wait to bring designs of them back to Manannán.

When he finally left Redania, he encountered the Fae of the west courts. Almost falling into a trap devised for humans, Jaskier met a young Fae called Hawk's Tooth.

After revealing his true nature, Jaskier was introduced to the king of the Brokilon forest. Hawk's Tooth showed him the magical wonders of memory transcending, something unheard of in the Redanian Summer court.

Jaskier, in turn, showed Hawk's Tooth how to manipulate the water so that they could breathe beneath it. Making mischief in the nearby lakes and streams possible for those of the Autumn court.

Memory transcending worked like most gifts from Fae to mortals. In exchange for talent, time, food, or rhyme, a memory could be transferred. Oftentimes, the Brokilon Fae used it to take names, revealing just how dangerous of creatures they really were.

But in the Brokilon forrest, competition was fierce. The nearby Dryads were constantly discarding "trespassers" that stumbled into the woods. Which, where was the fun in that? So, the Fae used whatever tricks they could to usurp mortals from the Dyrads.

After a long winter with the western court, Jaskier had bid his friends farewell and made for Aerdin. He hoped to meet the Fae of the eastern courts, as spring was just around the corner. He wished to see the magic of the Spring court at its peak.

Later, when he happened upon a tavern in Posada, he met Geralt. And the rest, as they say, was history.

Chapter Text

Any thoughts of home were squashed when he met Seanchaí. There were more songs yet to be sung. More people to save and battles to be fought.

So, he acted as he once did as the Sandpiper, preaching the stories of the Elves and all non-mortal beings on the contient. He had no clue where Geralt was, and for once, he wasn't looking.

He didn't need to cause mischief in the Witcher's life anymore. This fight he had joined, that his music had given a voice to, was all the mischief Jaskier needed to quell his Fae nature.

But he wasn't stupid. He knew his time was running out.

And when the Kings and Queens of the contient ordered the arrest of all Witchers, well, he could not just stand by.

Knowing his time was short, Jaskier had to find as many Witchers as possible and send them somewhere safe. And perhaps, in exchange, they would protect something of his.

It wouldn't matter if he was captured if he had nothing to give. The noose was coming anyway. Might as well make some more mischief along the way.

What he hadn't counted on was the first Witcher that he met being an utter fucking cad.

"I beg your pardon? My mother is nothing of the sort and you will take that back or-

He's cut off quickly when the bald Viper turns on him. He was called "Kingslayer," perhaps Jaskier should have been more wary in his delivery.

"I know you bard. You're the White Wolf's whore. And if I wanted Vesimir's litter pouncing down my throat, I'd break your pretty little face."

It's a good threat, but Jaskier's used to threats from men nearly twice his size. So all he says in reply is, "You think I'm pretty?"

Letho scoffs and turns back around, picking up his skulking in the other direction. Jaskier smiles and follows along.

After that first Witcher, finding them becomes easier. Almost as if his magic wielded a compass, pointing him in the right direction to anyone nearby.

And with every one he meets, he tells them all the same thing. To find refuge among one school. To join together and fight extinction.

He doesn't actually have any set place for them to go, as their schools are separated across the continent and between multiple mountains.

At least... not until he finds Vesemir.

The old wolf takes one look at Jaskier in the reflection of the apothecary's window and sighs. He was going to go inside, barter for ingredients, but the bard's presence doesn't bode well. Especially when Vesemir gets the feeling that Geralt's bard was looking for him.

"What do you want bard?"

Jaskier sidles up to the man, a somber expression on his face, and Vesemir feels his stomach drop. Geralt's dead.

That's why he's here.

"If I could borrow a moment of your time?" Jaskier asks, and before that look on the Witcher's face can get any worse adds, "Geralt is fine."

The old wolf immediately looks relieved, and Jaskier can understand why. As strained as their relationship is, he would never wish harm upon Geralt. And, with harming Geralt comes harming his travelling companions. Comes harming Ciri.

So, he doesn't make light of Vesemir's response, or relief. It is well deserved in this time. But now, so is this.

"You want me to let a bunch of schools into my keep. Schools that we've lost good Witchers to, schools with no morals, because of the White Flame?"

Jaskier nods.

"I've sent word with many passing Witchers, all of whom I would entrust my life in."

Vesemir stands, leaving Jaskier alone at a table of the only inn in town. He'll have to come back eventually. There are no other places to find shelter tonight, not for fifteen miles in any direction.

But, it seems that Jaskier has forgotten how stubborn these Witchers really are. Now Jaskier sees where Geralt gets it from.

The sky is open, raining down in sheets. Only a fool would dare camp outside right now. Or a Witcher with a grudge.

That's where Jaskier finds himself, well into the night when he realizes Vesemir isn't coming back. Trudging through the streets, and into the nearby wood to find Geralt's arse of a father.

But the woods are no place for mortals. This is Jaskier's element. He is more powerful here than in any cavalry or infantry regiment. The trees are his most trusted confidants.

Vesemir would hear him coming from a mile away, so, perhaps it's time to be rid of the farce. The old wolf was going to find out eventually when Jaskier asks him take one of his memories. And Jaskier needs him to take the biggest memory of all.

Geralt.

And who better to trust than the man's own father?

So, he reveals the cards plainly. There is no use in long, drawn out schemes, just to get the Witcher to agree.

No, he knows the Witcher will readily accept when he hears what's at stake.

So, Jaskier drops the strong hold of his human persona and walks through the nearest tree. Feeling through the roots and the grass exactly where the old wolf has made camp. He emerges through to the other side.

Directly into the Witcher's camp.

"You're a stubborn one, I'll give you that. But there is no where on the contient that you could go where I would not find. I am of the trees and I come from the mists at sea. You will listen to me or I'll make your life positively miserable."

The Witcher is crouched low, pulled harshly from his meditation by the surge of magic from Jaskier's appearance. He had a feeling the bard was more than human, but he had guessed a half-blood bastard. Not a full-blooded Fae. He's going to give Geralt one good talking to this winter.

"And just what would you do to me, bard?"

The Fae smiles with teeth sharper than before, eyes wide and blue.

"I'd start with dyeing your hair vermillion."

Where he was tense before, braced for threats, Vesemir relaxes. As he stands, he crosses his arms over his chest. This is still the bard that squawked his way beneath the tables of Voleth Meir's attack. Speaking of-

"You could have done something that day. You could have saved my boys."

The smile on the bard's face turns gentle, understanding. And Vesemir hates it.

"No, I couldn't have." He holds up his hand, revealing pink scars, very near to healing. The Witcher doesn't need to know the story behind them to know what caused them.

"While I admire your faith in my capabilites, I can assure you, my acting would have done no one good that day. Even if I had not been injured, challenging something as strong as Voleth Meir would have been a mistake. I would have been too weak had she decided to take my powers for herself."

Vesemir is quiet, contemplating.

Slowly, he agrees. Giving that witch more power would have been worse. The loss of so many pups in his own home is still fresh and tender.

"Is this why you want all the Witchers together? Is there a magical threat coming?"

Jaskier shakes his head.

"No. I'm afraid it's much worse. It's man."

Vesemir rubs a tired hand down his face. He heard the decree, he's been careful of what contracts he takes, ever mindful of traps. Now, Witcher contracts include Witchers. As reluctant as he is to admit it, the bard's right.

Their best chance is together.

Having survived the sacking of the keep, Vesemir knows the dangers of man. He will not underestimate their hatred of anything inhuman.

And if bunking with a bunch of Cats and Vipers is the cost of their survival, well... he may just have to get over it.

"Alright then, you have what you wish bard. Tell any others that you meet to make for Kaer Morhen. I'll handle the rest."

Jaskier nods, but by the look on his face, there's more. And the bard proves him right by opening his mouth instead of turning back to the tree he came from.

"There's one thing I need you to do for me."

Vesemir encourages him with a grunt and a wave.

"I need you to hold something for me, and protect it as best you can."

Vesemir's furrowed brow, if possible, grows more furrowed. The bard did not come to his camp carrying anything. Not even his instrument. What could he have that's so important, yet intangible?

And then he starts singing.

Chapter Text

By the time he comes across another Wolf Witcher, he's entirely forgotten all others which he met. Plausible deniability and all that.

Though the recipient of the names did not seem to care for some of the Witchers Jaskier named.

But, alas, Jaskier could not afford to wait for another Witcher, one who liked Cats. He could not be picky. And neither could they.

The continent was growing bold in their efforts at taking Witchers. Some towns even going so far as to set elaborate traps, fake contracts for monsters that end in ruse. Demitrium cages in the wealthier cities, angry mobs for the rest.

That's where he finds the Witcher Eskel. If he had any memory of Geralt, he'd know that this man was his brother. But he doesn't.

The Witcher is currently being held in the town square by eight men, each with long poles that have rope affixed at the end. Rope currently looped around the Witcher's neck.

He may not know this man, this Witcher, but that's not going to stop him from interfering.

All he knows is that he is supposed to find Witchers and send them to Kaer Morhen. And if he amasses too much information, he must gift his memories, his secrets, and the names of the Witchers he's met in order to protect both them and himself.

Jaskier thinks it is absurd how these people believe that Witchers-- the very beings who were created to protect people from monsters-- should be hunted. If they had succeeded, if Jaskier hadn't stepped in to find them, however many he's found, what would these people have done come the next monster attack?

He'd like to see these tavern leeches battle a bruxa. 

Hm... A bruxa.

How does he know what that is?

He can recall how many teeth they have, their average wingspan (when not pretending to be a beautiful woman) and how to tell if one is, in fact, a blood-sucking monster.

He just can't recall where he learned that information from.

No matter, he has bigger things to concern himself with. Like the Witcher.

This is a sticky situation. Day has barely broken, meaning no guise of night will hide his capabilities. Despite the hour, he can see (based on the blood and bruising) that they've been hunting this Witcher for awhile.

Disgusting fucking humans.

Clenching his fists, he breathes in carefully. He cannot afford to reveal himself to these townspeople. Lest he be strung up alongside this poor man.

It will take finesse to talk these people down. And time.

And judging from the look in the townspeople's eyes, the Witcher doesn't have much of it to spare. So, he gets to work.

Jaskier bumps shoulders with the man closest to him, apologizing sweetly when the man looks down at him.

When his eyes look into Jaskier's, he's struck still.

"Walk away very slowly and go home. You're in need of a nap. You were up late watching over your sheep. There's a wolf nearby."

The man blinks, dazed. Then, he turns around and walks away.

He repeats this process a few more times, thinning out the outside crowd of spectators until the mob remains. The ones holding pitchforks and screaming obscenities.

Jaskier brushes by them, making sure to fill each he passes with a deathly sense of unease. Many stumble from the crowd, dropping their weapons in their haste to leave. To flee to somewhere safer.

By now, the rest of the mob has become aware of something meddling amongst the crowd.

But Jaskier has already snuck his way into the center of the square.

The Witcher, though injured and obviously exhausted, senses Jaskier's magic. The Witcher's eyes, one swollen and the other bloodshot, find him easily.

Jaskier smiles.

A fine mist has been slowly creeping it's way into town from the edge of the woods, and now it is here. Rising up between the legs of the townsfolk who are too busy to notice.

The Witcher watches that smile grow. It is unsettling, but the only comfort Eskel has is knowing it's not for him.

"Dance," Jaskier whispers, glee in his eyes.

And Eskel watches the dazed townspeople begin to move. Their bodies sway in a dream-like state of consciousness. They twist and turn, raising their arms and dancing along to a beat that is not there.

Eskel does not feel the same desires to dance. He feels... nothing.

Well, that's not true. He feels the past three days like a wyvern hunt gone wrong. But aside from his wounds, he's unaffected.

The men that were holding him captive find dancing more interesting, dropping the poles which held him at bay.

Their reach was just beyond Eskel's grasp. Clever creations, these bastards. He hopes he's the first Witcher to fall victim to this town.

Jaskier walks up to the Witcher through the dancing bodies and begins pulling the rope off his neck and over his head.

"Jaskier, is that really you?"

The bard nods.

"I have been known by that name."

Eskel frowns.

He smells like Jaskier. Which is hard for shapeshifters to mimic. Dopplers might be able to, but Eskel knows what dopplers powers consist of. And calling a dancing mist into town isn't one of the things they're capable of.

"You're Fae."

Jaskier lifts another rope over his head, casting it to the side with a look of disgust. Yeah, that's how he felt too when they first tossed them over his head.

Once he's rid of the last noose, Eskel stands, relieved. Popping his neck feels amazing. As does stretching his arms once the rope around his wrists is gone.

He accidentally knocks his hand into a nearby villager's face and cringes.

Jaskier follows his line of sight and that grin comes back.

"You're not going to leave them like this, are you?"

Jaskier blinks, eyes wider than he remembered. And much more... blue.

"They hurt you." He says in lieu of an answer. Or maybe, to Jaskier that is the answer.

But to Eskel, it's not.

He knows these townspeople would have killed him, but he also knows the contracts for Witchers have a hefty reward. And this town looks like it needs the money.

He can't kill starving people for trying to survive.

What was one Witcher in comparison to an entire town?

"Don't leave them like this bard, we're better than this."

Jaskier pouts. But the Witcher's resolve is unwavering.

He sighs, looking around at the mischief and havok, reveling in it for a moment longer. Jaskier can feel it soaking into his bones, lighting his stomach up with a fluttering excitement.

All too soon it fades. Mirth gone, his lips part around one word.

"Sleep."

And the townspeople do.

Dropping to the ground right where they once stood. Some collapse together, tossed in a mock embrace. This, too, is fun.

But before he can even think about moving their sleeping bodies, the Witcher stumbles.

Jaskier hurries to his side, taking some of his weight with an arm tossed over his shoulder.

"I'm alright bard, just tired."

Jaskier steers them in the direction out of town, but Eskel protests.

"My horse. Need to find my horse."

Jaskier hums in consideration.

"Name?"

Eskel looks down at the bard, confused. They know each other. They just met last winter.

"Eskel..." he offers, tone flat.

Jaskier looks up, eyes squinting.

"There are no horses named 'Eskel' nearby."

Oh. Eskel laughs, even though his ribs twinge and his dry lips split.

"My horse's name is Scorpion." He finally manages once he's caught his breath.

Jaskier nods, whistling loudly, positively piercing to his Witcher senses. He weakly claps his hands over his ears to try and block the sound but with little success.

Once he's done, Eskel sags in relief.

"Don't worry, he'll find us. But we need to hurry before the town wakes."

For the first time, when he enters the woods, Eskel doesn't feel on guard. The bard is Fae. He commands the woods and all its inhabitants.

The relief alone is dizzying. It has the bard staggering under his weight.

"Heavy Witcher." He grumbles, leaning him up against a nearby tree.

"Secretive bard." He quips back.

Just as Eskel begins to think that this is it, that they've made it free with little in the ways of hiccups. Until the bard speaks.

"Do we know each other?"

Where Eskel's head once rested against the tree trunk, it snaps up at attention.

The bard doesn't smell like deceit. He smells confused, if anything. He's speaking the truth. He doesn't know who Eskel is.

How the fuck could he not remember? They were literally amongst the survivors of Voleth Meir's attack.

"Do you know Geralt?" He starts carefully.

Jaskier has begun moving about the nearby clearing, making what looks like a camp. Albeit, a camp to hide in plain sight, undoubtedly from the nearby villagers.

As he raises his arms, touching one tree and then next, Eskel realizes that he's making a glamour. He's making a glamour to protect someone he doesn't even fucking know.

"Is he your friend?" Jaskier asks and the Witcher feels the air being sucked right out of his lungs.

Whatever's going on, the bard doesn't seem to remember the last twenty years of his life.

"Why did you save me?" He asks, unable not to.

If he didn't know who Eskel was, to Geralt at least, then why interfere?

Jaskier looks over from where he's encouraging a bed of moss to grow. It looks to be a rather comfortable place to rest. Eskel sways back against the tree.

He's lost blood and absolutely got the shit kicked out of himself. But it's nothing that a good meal and a night's worth of sleep won't fix.

Jaskier is suddenly standing in front of him again, Eskel must have missed him moving. He must have missed a lot because now there's a fire in the center of their camp. It looks very warm and inviting.

Jaskier helps the Witcher over to the bed of moss, easing him down gently.

Just when Eskel was beginning to forget having asked a question in the first place, the bard responds.

"I'm supposed to find Witchers."

Eskel cocks his brow, splitting a cut he had forgotten about.

Jaskier tuts over him, pulling some of the moss free near his head and carefully patting the wound dry.

"Why do you need to find Witchers?"

Jaskier doesn't stop working. Eskel watches his face while he works. He seems unbothered by the work, the blood. The Witcher's almost too distracted by the cerulean of Jaskier's eyes to catch onto what he says next.

"I'm supposed to send them to Kaer Morhen."

Both of Eskel's eyebrows raise at that, disrupting the work the bard has already done, much to his displeasure.

"Just who all have you sent? Vesemir surely wouldn't stand for the other schools at the keep."

Jaskier is more focused on the wounds around his neck to care about answering his questions, but Eskel continues to ask them nonetheless.

But when the Witcher continues-- in lieu of resting-- the bard sighs. Looking down into the Witcher's eyes, he begs, "sleep".

And Eskel does.

Chapter Text

When Eskel wakes, the sun is no longer sitting in the sky. The trees that once hung overhead now appear... differently.

He sits up slowly, finding himself in an entirely foreign part of the woods. The Witcher wonders briefly if they're still in Corvo.

Aerdin wasn't usually so hostile against Witchers, what with them being so close to Kadwen (which was basically Witcher country). But Corvo was a small town, and it being that close to Nilfgaardian territory, Eskel's presence was like low-hanging fruit.

His side aches where he was gouged by one farmer's pitch fork. It doesn't nearly hurt as much as it had, which is good.

Hand absently cradling his injury, Eskel looks around their new camp.

It doesn't smell any particular way. Most cities are easily identifiable by scent. Trades and goods are often geographically based. The wine vineyards in Temeria, the salt of the Skellige Islands, and Metinna, which always smells like horse, no matter the town you're in.

But this forest has no clear definitive scent. Almost like they're not in the woods at all...

"Jaskier?"

If this is a glamour, it's a really fucking strong one. And if the bard can make glamours this elaborate, then he's more powerful than Eskel thought.

Though, the mist should have clued him onto that fact.

The bed of moss he's on is soft, so soft he almost wants to lie back down. But then he hears a soft snort from Scorpion and turns around quicker than his injuries would like. (But what would they know? They're part of his body, not the other way around.)

Even though he does feel like one giant bruise.

Scorpion is steadily munching away at some grass nearby, his saddle is gone, along with Eskel's packs. Which is only minimally concerning.

And the fact that he hasn't heard a response from Jaskier is also only minimally concerning.

"Bard?"

Just as he makes to stand, the Fae appears practically out of nowhere, chiding him for moving around so much.

"Well, if you'd have answered me the first time, I wouldn't have been so worried to go looking."

At that, Jaskier smiles, oddly enough.

"Oh, Eskel, I didn't know you cared. We hardly know one another. If your heart must yearn, tell it to do so from a position of rest."

Eskel blushes. Then almost immediately looks away, bewildered by his own response.

"We've met before bard. You travelled with my brother for twenty, very odd, years. You were just with us last winter at Kaer Morhen-

Eskel would go on, but the more he speaks, the more Jaskier's confusion grows.

His senses suddenly pick up the smell of blood and Eskel looks down at his torso, checking his wounds, only to find himself dry of fresh blood.

His eyes lift, finding the bard caught in the same position, kneeling before Eskel. Only now, blood is quickly pouring from his nostrils.

Eskel leans forward, hurriedly trying to help the bard when he looks as if he's about to pass out. He pulls the bard back against his chest, and lifts a corner of his already stained shirt to staunch the crimson flow.

"What's going on bard? Are you ill? Are you in need of any tonic or potion?" Eskel's working himself into a right state of- of panic. Which is not something he's felt in a long time.

"I can manage it if you need something, just give me a moment to stand." Eskel says.

The bard blinks dazedly up at the forest canopy, seemingly coming back to himself when he chuckles softly.

"You worrywolf," he chides, gently reaching up and knocking at Eskel's medallion with a delicate hand.

As nice as his laugh is, it fades all too quickly in Eskel's opinion. A frown tugs at the corners of Jaskier's lips, eyes wide and lost.

"I seem to be missing things, wolf. Time, most importantly."

Eskel slowly pulls the fabric of his shirt away, blood now dry. But Jaskier remains leaned back against him. When his eyes come back into focus, pulled away from the leaves and the trees, Eskel relaxes.

"I'm afraid that has been my own doing though. I can't recall just why I started, only that..." his voice slowly tapers off. Like he's trying to remember why he has no memories.

But Eskel has a feeling he knows.

If Jaskier is recruiting Witchers and sending them to Kaer Morhen, he's once again taken up the mantle of protecting the hunters from the humans. That job though, comes with great risks. Like capture.

It's a clever plan, burning the notes before anyone else can read them.

It makes Eskel feel lower than dirt though.

How he behaved when they first met, how all the wolves treated Jaskier, was reprehensible. They had made no efforts to get to know him, to thank him for the work his songs have done in changing the contient's views of Witchers.

And Jaskier knew that music would do little to protect them now. Not when a manhunt had been called.

Perhaps that's why Vesemir agreed to host the other schools. They have no choice but to combine their forces now.

Eskel smells blood again and he realizes that the bard is still trying to remember. Whatever he did with his memories made them unaccessible. And looking for them in an empty room was pointless.

Actually, it was painful.

"It's fine lark, you don't need to remember. I'll do that for now. You just need to stay well."

Jaskier blinks up at him, his smile slowly returning.

"You're right, I've got you to take care of, don't I?"

Eskel is unable to fight a smile of his own. Rolling his eyes to deflect his amusement.

"And Scorpion."

Jaskier nods, expression serious.

"Right, of course. How could I forget such a well-mannered gentleman? My sincerest apologies Scorpion." Jaskier finally pulls away, and Eskel- well, he doesn't know what to do with his hands now.

The bard is up and about, talking about how Scorpion found them and was so kind as to offer to carry the Witcher out of town for Jaskier.

"Not that I wasn't capable, I can assure you, I am more than able." Eskel scoffs and Jaskier gasps in offense.

"I am! Oh, you are going to regret that, get on my back right now, I'll show you-

"I believe you bard, let's just get back to the part about leaving town. Where are we now?"

Jaskier stops, grinning in a similar manner to the wild, feral grin he once made in the middle of the dancing mist. Eskel is immediately concerned.

"I'm looking for another Witcher."

Chapter Text

"We're in Gheso?!" Eskel shouts. "Why, on Melitele's green covered breasts, would you bring us here? We're literally in Nilfgaard country."

The bard hasn't said much since he revealed what they were doing. Or, more aptly, where they were doing it.

Eskel can't believe this.

He should. The bard's done nothing but show Eskel that he has no self-preservation skills. How Geralt managed twenty years with the Fae is a true miracle.

Eskel wants to shake his hand and apologize at the same time.

He also wants to strangle his brother. If Ciri didn't mean so much to Geralt, he's sure Lambert and Vesemir would have shipped her right off to the White Flame before all of this shit happened.

But that cub crawled her way into the hearts of all those who remain at Kaer Morhen. Even Lambert.

Eskel had tried, at first and in vain, to keep his distance from Geralt's child surprise. It hit too close to home to see her. She reminded him so much of Deidre.

He could have smacked Geralt over the head when he found out. What he'd actually done was much simpler. He shook his head in disappointment and left Geralt to the old wolf.

Vesemir had given him a good lecture too. One everyone had heard throughout the keep. After which, Vesemir put him on mucking duties for nearly the entirety of winter.

Not that it mattered much. Ciri was right there with him, helping him clean the stables like she wasn't the Princess of Cintra.

Eskel sighs. Geralt would probably suffer all seven hells just to keep that girl safe.

So Eskel should be fine traveling through one hell now. And perhaps this is a good thing.

Jaskier had saved him when he thought his life was forfeit. The next Witcher may also be in need of saving.

Oh what is he kidding. This far into the White Flame's territory, that bastard probably needs reassembling. Not just saving.

The glamour of the forrest had faded as soon as Jaskier revealed the truth of their location.

The sands of Gheso's desert shift underfoot. The sun would burn their backs had they been at the peak of summer. Spring is still thankfully in the air, making their nights cold and they oftentimes... cuddle for warmth. 

Gods. If Lambert were there, he'd be poking fun at Eskel's awkwardness.

How he was unable to tear his eyes away from the bard sometimes. How easily he let Jaskier into his space.

It's fairly understandable how Geralt ended up with Jaskier's company for twenty years. The bard just... clings. Like he craves the connection.

Though, he has a feeling that the bard never acted like this with Geralt.

Hells.

He doesn't even know if Geralt is aware of his bard's Fae nature.

He would ask if it wouldn't cause Jaskier's brain to leak through his ears.

Actually, they should look into that. The Witcher has never come across someone that could trade memories. Take them, yes. But trade them? And so many? It seems rather dangerous.

The bard almost walks in a daze, his laugh light and carefree. Probably because he can't remember any worries.

Some days, Eskel is envious. How freeing it must be to forget ones worst memories. But then he realizes the good memories are gone as well. The affects are the worst part though, as he's unable to help the bard while he battles mania and manic.

He's carefree, that's true. But he's also (unfortunately) crazy.

The bard proves as much when they finally leave pass the sands of the desert for the woods of Maecht.

The first tree Jaskier finds, he embraces.

Don't get him wrong, Eskel is relieved to see other signs of life, it's just that... well, he's never had the desire to hug a tree.

That instance could be overlooked, credit given to Jaskier's Fae tendencies. However, he can't overlook the bard dangling upside down from it with a fox in his arms the next morning.

"Look Wolf! A puppy!"

He's taken to calling Eskel that more and more. At first, the Witcher thought he had forgotten his name. But no, Jaskier just likes calling him names.

He won't call them pet names.

He has to push the sneers of his brother away from his mind then.

Eskel approaches the bard and the fox. The creature seems to be wrestling with the Jaskier, trying to free itself, gnawing at his hands.

The bard doesn't seem to notice, too pleased by its soft fur. How he hasn't lost his hold on the branch he's hanging from, Eskel has no clue. But the fox's distress is obvious, so Eskel (in an effort to avoid bloodshed) lifts it out of Jaskier's hands and sends it scampering on its way.

Jaskier is nearly nose-to-nose with Eskel then, upside-down and pouting.

"That wasn't nice, we were having a conversation."

Eskel scoffs, reaching up to free the bard next.

"You weren't listening to it then, it wanted to be let down."

Held against Eskel's chest, legs thrown over one arm and back in the other, Jaskier rolls his eyes.

"He was only doing that because there's a party coming."

Eskel wants to laugh, to tell the bard he's wrong, but just then a far off noise catches his attention.

Deep in the wood, a fair distance away, there are sounds of a party.

A scouting party.

He can hear the distant sounds of armor and chain mail shifting as soldiers march in step. Horses are quick to follow, pulling behind them a cart with a squeaky wheel.

Those are definitely scouts. And that cart must be for prisoners. 

"Shit." Eskel swears.

He looks around, frantically searching for shelter, trying to think of a plan when Jaskier cackles.

"Don't worry darling, I'll give you shelter from the storm."

And then he pulls Eskel in by the back of his neck and silences his concerns with a kiss.

The Witcher is unable to breathe. His grip tightens, mouth moving only because the bard deepens the kiss. That forces a gasp out of him, one in which Jaskier takes full advantage of, plunging his tongue into Eskel's mouth.

If he were paying any attention, he'd notice his medallion shaking. But his eyes are closed and he's practically dead to the world.

They've been travelling together for almost two weeks and Eskel has spent most of it stuttering, stammering, and staring.

This hadn't been a problem last winter. But then again, he hadn't known the bard well. Hadn't realized how deeply Jaskier cared for Geralt-- all Witchers, really.

The bard was just so brave and cunning. It was very hard to ignore how unabashedly he acted like himself. How smart he was, despite the mania.

It was very easy to like the funny little Fae man.

He hadn't thought the bard liked him back.

But seeing as his mouth was pressed firmly against Eskel's, it was hard to deny the evidence.

His brother often complained about Jaskier's wicked tongue getting them into trouble, but right now, Eskel does not mind. He'd probably still be wrapped up in the heady kiss with Jaskier had Scorpion not drawn their attention.

"Here I go again, almost forgetting about you, dear Scorpion." Jaskier motions for Eskel to let him down, which he does almost reluctantly.

This gives him time to grab his sword though, so he's not too terribly torn up about it.

Just as he turns in the direction of the sounds of the Nilfgaardian party, Jaskier grabs his arm. Pulling him around, the bard keeps one hand on the horse and the other slides up Eskel's back and lands in his hair.

"Lark, I-

He doesn't get another word out, mouth brought back down to the bard's in a savage, wicked kiss. Were he a weaker man, his knees would be weak.

But he's not. He's a Witcher, and there are soldiers coming. He must protect Jaskier, he can't let anything happen to him. Not after all he's done to save his fellow Witchers.

Jaskier deserves someone looking after him for once. And if Melitele sent Eskel to do so, then he'll protect the bard to his dying breath.

The Witcher tears himself away, as impossible a task it seemed a moment ago, he breathes easy now.

Sensitive to the oncoming threat, Eskel finally notices his medallion vibrating this time.

Jaskier's hand is still on him, gripping firm around his forearm. When Eskel looks over at him, he notices the bard's eyes glowing.

"Jask-

"Shush," Jaskier whispers, and the Witcher stops talking.

He opens his mouth to protest, but by then, it's too late.

The scouting party breaks the silence of their neck of the woods. Eskel is about to raise his hand, to cast arrd and send these bastards flying, when he notices something.

His hand falters.

The soldiers aren't looking at them. They aren't looking in their direction at all.

Which should be strange considering Jaskier's glowing eyes and Eskel unsheathed sword. They are clearly a threat, but one that miraculously goes unnoticed to the Nilfgaardian soldiers.

Eskel remains quiet, breathing slow and carefully. Whatever Jaskier has done requires focus and concentration. And even then, any noise from either of them could break the spell.

How he's keeping Scorpion silent, Eskel doesn't know. Another miracle.

There is no end to the greatness of this man. Eskel almost sighs at the thought.

Perhaps the kiss had been a part of this cloaking. Jaskier seems to need touch to establish it, and silence.

Maybe kissing Eskel was just the easiest way to ensure both things happened.

As the last of the scouting party passes them by, Eskel feels stupid.

Of course the bard doesn't like him. Jaskier doesn't even know who he is.

They've only known each other for two weeks and they've been on the run for the entire time. What was he thinking?

It was stupid to get distracted like this.

Here he was, holding all his memory and the majority of his sanity, while Jaskier-- who was half mad-- managed to maintain a modicum of decorum.

Lambert wouldn't be laughing at this point, he'd be downright dying.

When Jaskier releases his arm, Eskel sighs. And not out of relief.

Jaskier, if he notices, doesn't say anything. He merely skips ahead of Eskel, pulling Scorpion along after him with a smile.

Chapter Text

They find the other Witcher two days later. His name is Guxart. And he's a Cat.

A school Eskel's not overtly fond of.

Yet Jaskier greets him like an old friend.

Though, judging by the grey in the Cat's beard, he would be more suited to being friends with Vesemir than Jaskier.

Guxart is the head of the school of Cats, and seems to be the most relaxed one Eskel's ever met. Perhaps it has something to do with his age.

Gods could only hope so.

Otherwise Lambert would have his hands full for a very long time with his Cat. The one he thinks they don't know about.

Jaskier elbows him pointedly in the side, a side still tender from his bout in Corvo two and-a-half weeks ago. Eskel grumbles, folding his arms over his chest.

"Apologies for my friend, he's a very grumpy lout on account for the attempt on his life a few weeks ago."

Guxart nods, though his eyes never seem to stop measuring Eskel up. Like he's waiting for Eskel to make the first move.

Like he would defend himself if necessary.

Which is absurd. If anything, they should be on the defensive.

Guxart sniffs then, undoubtedly taking in everything from the leather of Eskel's armor, to the oils he uses for his hair.

The old Cat blinks, face jerking back in surprise.

"You're one of Vesemir's pups?"

Eskel's hands drop to his sides, fists clenching.

"Is there a problem with that?"

The corner of Guxart's mouth quirks up, revealing a sharp tooth to the Wolf.

"You don't need to worry about me pup, it was my blade that finished Tyrese."

Eskel hates to admit it, but that does ease some of his worries. Geralt hasn't talked about the tournament for almost sixty years. Vesemir had said they parted amicably with Guxart, but Eskel hadn't known what that meant then.

Perhaps "amicable" to Vesemir meant the killing of Tyrese. The one that dragged everybody into the tournament in the first place.

Still, his mentor hasn't held back his opinion on Cat Witchers since. And Eskel doubts that's changed. Even with Jaskier's inviting everyone to Kaer Morhen. How they're all fairing right now is a wonder.

Eskel should probably go and find out.

He's not exactly... needed anymore.

He's healthy enough to make the trek. He'd beat the snow on the pass. Maybe even the autumn winds.

It's just-

Jaskier.

He's all alone, searching for Witchers across the continent, waiting to be captured. And, really, Eskel owes him for saving his life back in Corvo.

Guxart says something to Jaskier then, something that Eskel should have heard, but was too busy overthinking to catch.

"I don't know a 'Vesemir,' otherwise I would love to tell you how he's doing."

Eskel helpfully adds, "You did once, lark, you just don't remember."

Jaskier looks at him, head tilted and a small, curious smile on his face.

"Sweet Wolf. I've half a mind to keep you."

Eskel clears his throat. It's difficult bearing the weight and enduring the warmth of Jaskier's stare. His eyes are just so trusting, so... pleased. If Guxart wasn't there, he'd probably flush like a school boy. It's embarrassing how easily Jaskier affects him.

It'd be a dead giveaway to anyone looking for a weakness.

"Well, as much as I'd love to stay and watch this, I've got a kit to look for."

Jaskier manages to pull his eyes away from the Witcher at that. He perks up and laughs.

"What a coincidence, I'm looking for him too!"

Guxart stands to his full height.

He's not taller than Eskel, but he's still an imposing figure when he's not pretending to be an older, less capable man.

"And why, exactly, are you looking for one of my kits?"

Eskel tenses, ready to pull Jaskier behind him, when the bard does the worst thing possible. He leans in towards the Cat.

And Eskel's hand on the back of his doublet does little to stop him.

"We're collecting kittens." He grins.

Eskel pulls Jaskier back so fast the bard stumbles right into the barrel of Eskel's chest. He holds his other hand up to Guxart, asking for patience.

Which, asking a Cat to remain calm is like asking a kikimora not to kill you.

"What he means to say is that we're trying to find Witchers to send them to Kaer Morhen."

Guxart stops, brow wrinkled in both surprise and confusion.

"Why in Melitele's name would you do that? Vesemir would sooner rip off his cock than let a Cat into Kaer Morhen."

"The kings and queens have all lost sense," Jaskier says, like he's not half-mad himself. "This decree is silly. Complete and utter nonsense. And I was not going to stand by and let those pompous arseholes take away some of my favorite people."

Guxart's brow raises. Eskel wants to beg him not to ask, not to question the bard, because he's sure neither of them are ready for whatever Jaskier has to say on Witchers.

But the stubborn old Cat ignores his warning, pleading look.

"We're not people, bard. We're Witchers."

Eskel releases Jaskier then. There's no point in trying to hold back an angry Fae (as he's coming to learn).

Jaskier stomps right into Guxart's space, and shoves a finger into his chest.

"That is, by far, the single most idiotic, ludicrous thing that I've ever heard. 'Not people,' oh, kiss my arse you self-pitying, emotionless twat. I may not remember many things, but I do know this: Witchers are more humane than humans and actually abide by their morals. Unlike most of the bastards on this gods forsaken rock."

Guxart is silent. He looks a cross between utterly gobsmacked and entirely impressed. Eskel has a feeling the impression comes from the bard's bravery at being able to stand up to a Witcher.

Especially a Cat.

That finger to the chest would have cost any other person that digit, but Jaskier? Jaskier gets a laugh. The full-bellied kind that shakes Guxart's entire body.

Jaskier looks ready to pout, to begin another tirade about Witchers when the Cat finally manages to get ahold of himself.

"Hells. You are one very odd little creature. Sounds just a scrappy as one of my kittens." He directs that last part to Eskel, to which the Wolf wordlessly agrees.

Jaskier is certainly as fearless as a young Cat Witcher.

And just as reckless.

Eskel rubs a tired hand down his face. He's going to have to start tying the bard to his side, so that he doesn't run off like that again.

"What say we look for my kit together? Then we can all go up to Kaer Morhen and I can see the old Wolf for myself."

Jaskier's scent turns softer then. His expression isn't as lively.

It doesn't take Guxart very long to notice his change.

"I'm afraid he's very far into Nilfgaard's territory. It would be best if I went and retrieved him alone."

Guxart opens his mouth, ready to protest, when Jaskier cuts him off.

"You'll do no good for us there, Guxart. In fact, I have another job for you."

Eskel waits, wanting to know just what task the bard dares to dole out to the Cat, when Jaskier turns to him.

Gently setting a hand on his arm, he asks Eskel to give them a moment.

The Wolf Witcher doesn't know how to respond for a second.

Why the hell is he getting sent off? He hasn't done anything.

Is this why Jaskier hasn't sent him on his way to Kaer Morhen yet? Does he not think Eskel capable of the task he's giving Guxart?

He's able to feign indifference, despite the inner turmoil, and nods in reluctant agreement.

It's fine. He'll just step away and listen in.

But when he gets far enough away, where a normal human would no longer be within hearing distance, he finds that he can't hear anything either.

Not Jaskier's voice, his heartbeat, or his breathing. But, for some reason, he can hear Guxart. 

"... and what am I supposed to do with that, bard?"

He asks, causing Eskel to lean in to try and hear Jaskier's response. But he hears nothing. And then Guxart speaks again.

"If I do this, you must promise me that you'll find my kit, or whatever remains of him."

Jaskier must agree because Guxart moves then, leaving the bard alone on the path.

Eskel is quiet in his approach, something about Jaskier feels different. His eyes are wider, irises greater. And when he looks at Eskel and smiles, there's something... feral in that grin.

More so than ever before.

Eskel's half tempted to test him with silver, to see if he's been taken by a doppler. But the bard blinks and his eyes return to normal.

Though, his smile-- while smaller-- doesn't seem to lose that feral edge.

Scorpion whinnies from behind the bard, giving Eskel the support he didn't know he needed. The Witcher really thought for a moment that nothing was amiss.

That perhaps the otherworldly blue in his eyes had been a trick of the light.

But if Scorpion senses something off about the bard, then there's something off.

Eskel will just have to figure out what that is.

Chapter Text

They're nearing Gemmera when Scorpion loses a shoe.

A week ago, Jaskier might have made a comment about the misfortunes of stray roots or loose stones. Now though, he asks why he and the horse can't just trade shoes.

He's completely serious about it too.

Eskel can't help but look down at the bard's feet.

As stylish as his boots are, they'd never fit the horse's-

Good gods, what is he saying, the bard's positively lost it.

With a roll of his eyes he pulls Scorpion near the sounds of the city while Jaskier prances along behind them.

"Horse shoes are rather dull. And I think the material is just plain atrocious. Could you imagine having to have your shoes nailed to your feet?" He just keeps going, continuing his thoughts on footwear, horses, and fashion.

It's the hardest conversation that Eskel's had to partake in. Certainly impossible to follow up with a comment or question. Jaskier's asked enough questions already.

Jaskier stops talking then, and Eskel has to stop walking to check on him. If he's quiet for too long that has proven to be a problem.

The Witcher has already had to stop him from taking falcon eggs from their nest, swimming in a selkie's river, and dancing with a bear.

If being in the wilderness was so hard, he can't imagine how much more difficult travelling in town will be.

He almost wants to tell the bard to wait here for them.

But, who knows what kind of shenanigans he would find.

When Eskel turns around, he finds Jaskier standing in the middle of the footworn path leading into town. His brow is furrowed in concentration, too much concentration. 

When the Witcher smells faint traces of copper, he drops Scorpion's reigns and rushes to the bard's side.

A thin trail of blood trickles from one of the bard's nostrils, but Eskel is there in time to catch it before it can stain his blouse.

Jaskier looks up at him with round eyes. So very lost and confused. Eskel feels like shit then.

He's been trying to keep his distance ever since their interaction with Guxart. The bard obviously doesn't trust him, but that doesn't mean Eskel can shrug off his duties.

He made a promise to himself to look after Jaskier. And he's doing a terrible job of it if the blood is any indication.

"Eskel?" Jaskier queries.

The Witcher nearly drops to his knees, trying so desperately to seem open and receptive. His eyes are practically begging Jaskier to trust him, to depend upon him.

He'd do anything he asked, Jaskier only needed to say the word.

God's. It's barely been a month and the bard has him wrapped around his little finger.

The things Lambert would say, he thinks with a groan.

Jaskier's hands have found their way between his. Eskel squeezes them reassuringly.

"I- I was thinking about my shoes just then. About a time when they were terribly ill-prepared for something, except I couldn't quite remember what they weren't suitable for. I just-

His bottom lip trembles and Eskel feels like a knife has slipped between his ribs. He pulls the bard into an embrace, unable to stand the look on Jaskier's face.

"It's okay bard, you don't need to remember. Told you I'd do that for you, right?"

Jaskier nods against his collarbone, hands gripping the leather lapels of Eskel's jacket.

They pull apart slowly, Jaskier's eyes finding his, and Eskel watches as his irises dance. Growing to an abnormally large size, practically swallowing the whites of his eyes, before shrinking back to normal.

This is what he saw after he gave Guxart that task. Now that Eskel thinks about it, it was probably a memory. Something important that Jaskier needed to be rid of before they got too far into Nilfgaard's territory.

Perhaps that's why he hadn't shared it with Eskel.

He would have had to leave in order to protect that memory.

The Wolf brushes the edge of the bard's jaw, thumb gentling near the corner of his mouth.

"I'd tell you about your boots if it wouldn't cause you pain, Lark. But I can't."

He's lying. He doesn't know what incident the bard's talking about, where his shoes were ill-suited.

Honestly, Geralt might have mentioned it. He's complained to them enough about the bard's flashy clothes and impractical wear for the path, Eskel should know. But he doesn't. And he hates himself for not knowing.

He misses Jaskier's smile, as wild as it was.

In the shadow of his sadness, Eskel realizes that the bard's wild grin doesn't fill him with fear, so much as excitement.

The bard is such a tantalizing, wonderful man. He's so unlike anyone Eskel has ever met. And each quirk he finds, he hoards like a dragon.

Gods, if he could keep Jaskier, he would.

"Tell me anyway." Jaskier says and Eskel smiles, they both know he won't.

At least, not the true story. But the bard must realize how easily Eskel folds for him and asks anyway.

"Your shoes," he starts, trying to think of a story, something silly that might banish the bard's sadness.

"You once wore your new leather boots to the Festival of the Vat in Toussaint. Got grape juice all over them."

Jaskier laughs with tears in his eyes.

"Right," he smiles. "I remember now."

They both know that's not true. Eskel pulls him in, bringing their foreheads together.

The bard smells like wine. Sweet and heady.

"My brother said you lamented over them for days," he adds.

"Your brother Geralt, right?"

Eskel nods, though he doesn't pull away. It makes both of their heads move in a way that causes another laugh to bubble out of the bard.

"Thank you, love. You're so very good at remembering, I think I will keep you."

Eskel looks into Jaskier's eyes then, dark and serious.

"You'd have to force me away to get me to leave, Lark."

Jaskier reaches up a careful hand, brushing Eskel's mouth with his calloused fingertips.

"Never," he sighs and the Witcher can't take it any longer.

He is weak and wanting. And all he desires is Jaskier.

His smile, his touch, his laugh.

His kiss...

Eskel doesn't know who brought their lips together, only knows that he's not going to be the first to pull away.

His eyes have fallen shut. And where he normally sees nothing but black behind closed lids-- vibrant reds and soft, sweet pinks bloom before his eyes.

The bard's lips part on a sigh and Eskel, being the weak man that he is, takes advantage. Their mouths open to one another, until all Eskel's senses pick up are Jaskier.

The taste of his smile is rich, like chocolate.

His hair is soft beneath Eskel's Witcher-rough hands.

Jaskier's nose scrunches up in delight when they share a laugh.

Scorpion huffs at them from where he's munching on some grass, bringing them back to the path.

And more importantly, the task said horse brought them there for.

Eskel's mouth is barely a hair's breadth from Jaskier's. 

The bard's eyes are seemingly back to normal.

He traces his thumb beneath one of those beautiful blue eyes reverently.

"Do you think Scorpion would wear boots to the Festival of the Vat?" Jaskier asks, throwing Eskel for a loop.

That's when the Witcher realizes that Jaskier's finally lost the battle with his eyes. They no longer fluctuate, simply giving in to his Fae senses.

Eskel chuckles, but there is no mirth in his laugh. Mourning bubbles up in his throat, threatening to suffocate him. 

Very quickly, Eskel comes to two realizations.

The bard that travelled the continent with his brother is gone.

Who was left-- the wild little Fae-- was Eskel's.

And that's all that matters.

They separate, hands wordlessly finding one other. Intertwined and unwilling to part. They're following after his horse again when Jaskier's question finally catches up to him.

Shoes on a horse. Preposterous.

But, this is his bard now. In for a penny...

"Scorpion doesn't like the Festival of the Vat. He prefers his grapes uncrushed." Eskel says.

It's a silly thing to say. The Witcher's never even seen his horse eat a grape. But Jaskier now finds solace in the mischief and the madness.

And, for him, Eskel's willing to be a little crazy.

Chapter Text

They're on the border between Gemmera and Etolia when Eskel realizes this will be the last of civilization for awhile. Fergys van Emreis practically torched a path through Etolia to Nilfgaard.

Etolia's furtile hills and history were uprooted by Nilfgaard years before the White Flame ever thought of taking Cintra.

The people will be hungry there.

Desperate.

They'll need disguises so as not to be recognized. And they'll have to maintain a low profile. It should only take them a few days before they reach Nilfgaard. But that's a few days in a country that has bore the brunt of Nilfgaard's tyranny for decades.

And Jaskier is terrible at maintaining a low profile.

They're in a river, washing off the worst of their travel and stocking up on water. Eskel hasn't been this far south in at least a decade, he can't say if they'll have another opportunity at freshwater like this.

There's an egret in the water, wading knee-deep and staring intently at the bard. Eskel would have noticed it had he not been so focused on the map in his hands. They managed to trade for it in Gemmera, where Scorpion's shoe was replaced.

Jaskier was swimming in circles, content to soak himself to the bone. The sounds of his splashing kicks and strokes peter out slowly, allowing Eskel to sink into a deeper state of focus.

This map isn't new, but it's better than nothing. Definitely more current than what Eskel had previously known Etolia and Nilfgaard to look like.

He's plotting out the safest path, trying to strategize where they might encounter guard stations or patrols based on his own knowledge of military movements.

If they keep heading south, they should make it to Loc Grim in four or five days time. If there's a Witcher being held anywhere, it'd be there. The emperor would want his informants close, particularly ones as strong as Witchers. That is— if he has more than one.

Jaskier said he was only looking for one, though. Specifically a Cat. Which, of all the Witchers to capture, a Cat seems the most difficult.

And to hold them for a long extended period of time? Cats were notorious lock-picks and could break out of any cell or pair of shackles. But if the Cat hasn't broken out by now, then getting in will prove some difficulty.

Jaskier and Eskel will have to think of a way either through or over the walls of the city. And that's if they make it past the river first.

The river will positively be crawling with patrols and guards. Most likely behind the riverbank, in case of escapees (because he doubts anyone is sneaking into Nilfgaard right now).

Loc Grim is positively out of the question. They'll have a dock to stop anyone on the water, travelling to or from the city. If Eskel knew anything about cities, particularly empires, goods must get in somehow. Which would be across the river.

Unless it's brought across the bridge.

There's a bridge connecting Etolia to Nilfgaard; which is also, most likely, being watched.

He's sitting on the grass along the edge of the river, feet submerged in the water. Scorpion is carefully watching their clothes while he grazes on some grass.

They've both stayed in their smalls, content to dry out beneath the sun later.

Eskel rubs a hand absent-mindedly over the scars on the side of his face. This is absolutely fucked. If he had his brothers, they might be able to come up with a decent plan, but this?

Going in ill-prepared and low on potions, with a bard for backup— Vesemir would have his head for doing something this stupid.

He lowers the map.

Half tempted to sink back into the river and never resurface, the Witcher groans. He's gone on hunts with little information before, but this was just suicide. Worse than when well-meaning villagers give him the wrong leads on a hunt.

Abandoning the map to the grass at his side, Eskel finally looks over to the bard.

Jaskier has been up and down, swimming under water for far longer than any normal human could stand. He scared Eskel the first time he didn't come up for air after five minutes. Honestly, the Fae could probably hold his breath longer than Eskel could.

When Eskel gets to his feet, he doesn't see Jaskier.

He's not hiding behind the large rocks in the middle of the river, where the water splits. He's not drying out on the shore, nor is he up any of the nearby trees.

Hells, he's not even pestering Scorpion.

Eskel's worry is quickly shifting into panic. A feeling he's unfortunately becoming familiar with the longer he travels with Jaskier.

"Bard?" He calls, turning back to the river when he hears a splash.

It's just one of the egrets, much to Eskel's growing frustration.

"Jaskier!" He cries.

Rushing over to their clothes when he gets no response, Eskel quickly finds his trousers.

He's too busy freaking out over his missing bard to consider how difficult it would be to pull on dry pants over wet smalls. He stumbles twice before a cry startles him, sending him onto his arse.

The Witcher's heart rate is practically twice it's normal rate. Probably beating closer to a normal human's than the average Witcher's.

That damned egret is now on the edge of the riverbank, head tilted, studying him.

The one behind it flaps its wings above the water, shaking out its feathers in an attempt to dry them.

That's when Eskel realizes there was only one bird before.

Breathing hard with his pants round his ankles, Eskel reaches a hand out tentatively.

"J-Jaskier?"

The bard-

The bird-

Jaskier shifts shapes then.

Where wings once were, arms take their place. And those hands that Eskel has been studying for days, stretch out. The slicked-back snowy feathers on the top of his head give way to the beautiful brown locks of Jaskier's hair. Framing the face that Eskel has fallen asleep memorizing.

Jaskier's kneeling before him then, back to his wonderful bard self. He's silent, waiting for Eskel to act.

Eskel doesn't know what for, until he remembers that his arm is still outstretched.

Heart now calm (perhaps more calm than its ever been) Eskel reaches out.

His hands are soft, thanks to the water. Eskel feels like for the first time, he's not too rough to hold onto his bard. He cups the back of Jaskier's head, running a hand through his wet hair.

A laugh squeezes its way out of his chest then. "My darling lark. My sweet petal." He breathes, tugging Jaskier in.

Just before their lips meet, he growls, "Never scare me like that again."

Chapter Text

Heavy clouds sit in the distance.

It's been two days since he learned about Jaskier's shifting abilities and he's still not used to it. His bard's continual ability of surprising him should not be so surprising.

Honestly, he should know better by now.

There's a lark currently sitting on his shoulder, delicate feet perched carefully around the spikes on his gambeson. Together, they're currently sat up in a tree waiting for a Nilfgaardian patrol to pass.

If he never hears soldiers marching again, that'll be too soon. The Nilfgaardians walk right beneath the branch they're taking cover on. Talking amongst each other, laughing despite the early morning. Eskel figured they'd be miserable, marching in what will soon be rain. But they're lively. Jovial almost.

Something must have happened for this patrol to be in such high spirits. Eskel only hopes that doesn't mean the Witcher was captured.

They're travelling on foot now, which is slow and grueling. 

He had to leave Scorpion in the last town, they paid a stablehand a fair amount of coin just to ensure his horse was well taken care of. He hopes that they won't be gone longer than a week or two.

The closer they get to Loc Grim the less likely travel by horseback is. Less coverage from the undoubtedly milled forests nearby, along with busy rivers filled with merchants and menaces alike.

The Witcher only hopes that they won't be in need of a quick escape.

Jaskier, he learns, doesn't care much for goodbyes. He stood, petting Scorpion's head until the horse had practically fallen asleep. Eskel almost had to carry him out of the stable.

It would have looked suspicious had they not been glamoured to look like regular villagers, getting ready to (as Eskel told the inn keep) offer their services to the Nilfgaardian palace.

Those passing by had undoubtedly seen similar scenes. Worse, he's sure. Families parting, desperate for work-- for food. And Nilfgaard was the only chance many of these people had to earn liveable wages.

At least Lil' Bleater was back home in Kaer Morhen. That is, if none of the new Witchers have tried to eat him.

He's sure Vesemir would dissuade them from doing so. Eskel's just glad he chose to leave him at the keep this year, some kind of fate or something.

Jaskier would love Lil' Bleater.

They were both hard-headed little menaces. It would have been amusing watching them interact. He can only imagine how long it would Jaskier would endure Lil' Bleater's headbutting before the fae shifted into a goat himself.

They'll just have to wait to meet each other until after they've survived this whole ordeal.

The last of the patrol finally marches out of his hearing distance, meaning they should be safe to get down from the tree. Before he can however, the bard shifts back; no longer perched on his shoulder as a lark. Now sitting boldly on his lap, a man.

Eskel grunts under Jaskier's sudden weight, not unhappy by this position. His hands find their way around Jaskier's hips when the bard leans too far back. Pulling Jaskier tight against his chest to stop him from tumbling out of the tree.

Jaskier looks up at him, smug. Like that was just a ploy to get Eskel into drawing them together. Which, knowing his bard, it most likely was.

"I like sitting on you, you're very comfortable." Jaskier declares.

Eskel chuckles.

The patrol is long gone by now, and he isn't expecting another any time soon. The last dregs of the morning have faded, their camp sits hasitly packed away in their bags.

Jaskier can't do too much glamouring this close to the border. Nilfgaard's mages might sense, and trace, any uses of magic this close to the Nilfgaardian empire. Which is not something they can afford right now.

So, quickly packing up their camp and scampering up a tree had been the safest call. Only now, with the bard sat so sweet on his lap, Eskel's no longer eager to be out of this tree.

"How do you feel about tree sex?" Eskel asks, feeling just as bold and cheeky as his bard.

Jaskier tilts his head, contemplating. 

"Too much pollen." He says and Eskel laughs louder than he means to. Not that anyone would hear them. The patrol is miles away by this point and there is no risk of them coming back.

"Not the trees-

There's a devilish smile spread across the bard's lips.

"I know." He says, sliding his hands up Eskel's chest. "We're very near the flowers, and the pollen." Which is when Eskel notices the faint flittering whisps of pollen in the air. It's undoubtedly clinging to their clothes by now, what with them having brushed against its leaves in order to find sanctuary on this branch.

Jaskier's hands continue upwards until they drap over Eskel's shoulders. "But for you, wolf, I'm willing to get a little dirty."

Which is how they end up sprawled across the forest floor later, a broken branch behind Eskel's back. Shaken loose from all of their... activities.

His trousers are still up in the tree, with the rest of their stuff.

Jaskier looks surprised at first, they both are-- and rightfully so. But when they look at each other, eyes both filled with similar shades of shock and awe, they dissolve into fits of uncontrollable laughter.

Eskel sits up, once more pulling the bard close.

"I know, that was stupid. Should have checked the inegrity of our makeshift bed first. That's on me."

Jaskier's laughter turns to snickering at Eskel's noble acceptance of the blame.

"Had your hands not been so distracting, I might have been able to reinforce it." Jaskier reasons.

Which, if Jaskier's able to reason, he needs to do a better job at keeping his lark distracted.

Eskel pets a hand down Jaskier's head, caressing his wonderful locks in careful consideration.

"Well..." he starts. "Since we're here and all-

Jaskier's laugh is twice as loud then, quieted only by Eskel's kiss.

Chapter Text

They're a half an hour's walk from the river when Jaskier suddenly stops walking.

He turns his head back in the direction they just came from, trying to hear something. Eskel's hearing should be able to pick it up, but all he can hear is the rushing water of the nearby river and a flock of birds taking to the skies.

Jaskier tackles him then, taking them both to the ground with a shout.

Eskel doesn't know what the hell's going on until he feels the heat from a wall of flame overhead. Quickly casting quen around them, he rolls over Jaskier, eyes scanning the nearby surroundings for the threat.

He can't see or hear anything other than the flame though. Which should be impossible, but when the fire suddenly dies out, Jaskier pulls them to their feet.

"We've got to move, the flock says it's defensive measures. The mages cast it to protect the bridge."

Eskel nods, following after the bard as they run parallel with the river. He can't see it just yet, but he knows they're close.

"Will they sense you using magic on nature?" He asks hurriedly.

Glamours are strong and take up a lot of magic, but nature is natural. At least, that's what Jaskier said, so he could theoretically have something grow across the river that they could use to cross.

But they're at least ten miles from Nilfgaard's empire, even small magic is a risk. He can hear the distant sounds of guards shouting, their attention undoubtedly drawn by the fire.

The villagers nearby must know about all of the traps and triggers the guards have set. What fools they were for walking right through one.

The guards sounds grow nearer. Gaining on their location somehow.

That's when he notices Jaskier's glowing blue eyes.

"Fancy a swim?" The bard asks.

Just as a wall of Nilfgaardians breaks through the nearby line of trees, he and Jaskier jump into the river.

A swell tumbles over their heads, enveloping them in the water so quickly Eskel quite literally rolls with it. The Witcher casts his hands out like a net, searching for the swarm that is Jaskier and his magic.

The current carries them on. He's too busy spluttering, trying to find his bard, to notice that they pass Loc Grim entirely.

The water still holds the chills of winter, spring not yet welcome in the stream. Eskel makes one hearty push for the surface, splashing and slapping at the water before he's dragged back under.

He can't see Jaskier anywhere.

He's not in the river, he's not on the edge.

Just as Eskel feels his lungs start to protest, to tighten under the intense pressure of the river's unrelenting current, something pierces through his gambeson.

Five points of white hot pain so sudden he opens his mouth to roar, accidentally taking in more of the river as he does.

His body is ripped from the water's clutching, cold hands, cast aside as soon as he's surfaced.

Rolling onto his stomach, he expels all of the water he managed to swallow. One hand holds his torso up, the other is weakly fisted down in the grass.

Once the water is mostly gone from his lungs, Eskel lifts his head, breathing heavily.

His eyes are stinging, blind from the barrage of the water, soft around the edges that he has to blink a few times just to see clearly.

And when he does, he vaults to his feet with a shout.

He lost one of his swords in the calamity of the current, and the one he has isn't suitable for a leshy.

It will have to do.

Freeing it from its scabbard, Eskel brandishes it out at the monster with a warning cry. His arm stings with every swing of his sword, but he ignores it, gritting his teeth while he works.

The blade doesn't light quite the same as it would on a sword made of steel but that doesn't matter. He must kill this beast and find his bard.

Just as Eskel finishes casting aard, sending the leshy back more than a dozen paces, he hears his name called.

Flaming sword in hand, he turns. Careful never to show his back to the monster ahead.

He sees nothing.

No one.

He yells then, more a cry of vengeance than anything real or intimidating. Charging towards the monster, the Witcher raises his weapon.

However, before he can come within a meter of the monster, a strong gust of wind flies towards him. Extinguishing the flames of his sword almost instantly.

Surprised, Eskel looks up at the leshy. He's never encountered a leshy that could manipulate the elements, only plants and animals.

His name is called again, only this time he realizes it was in front of him the whole time.

Sitting in the branches that make up the leshy's head is Jaskier.

He drops his sword entirely.

Ignoring the monster and everything Vesemir ever taught him, Eskel rushes toward his bard.

The leshy makes no move to attack him, even gives him a boost up into its branches. The bard is drenched, but free from harm. Eskel nearly weeps in relief.

He smothers the bard in kisses then. Cheeks, nose, mouth, until his lungs protest again.

The bard laughs and Eskel hears the resonating sound of bells dancing in the distance. It's the first time he's ever heard his bard's true nature slipping through. His madness is one thing.

Humans and mages and Witchers all possess the ability to go mad. It was easy to accept that part of the bard, to credit it to something else, rather than his Fae nature.

But he is Fae.

Eskel's seen enough to know that, but something about his laugh takes him by surprise.

Jaskier must sense his change as he sighs. Gently patting the leshy's bark, it lowers down enough that Jaskier can slide down its side, landing gracefully on his feet.

Eskel follows him with much less grace. Eyes too busy studying the bard.

He can command a leshen.

"If it is made of nature, I can encourage its energy."

Eskel stands, watching the bard direct the leshy in what is most definitely the direction of the Nilfgaardian soldiers. They were able to gain ground travelling through the water, but that didn't mean they weren't still being pursued.

"Kelpie?"

"Water." Jaskier supplies and Eskel nods.

"So a golem wouldn't be too far of a stretch either." Eskel reasons.

"They are made up of mud and earth, so, yes. Theoretically I could. But I've not had an opportunity to encourage a golem."

Eskels shrugs.

"They're not very bright. What with them having rocks for brains and all."

Jaskier is studying him now. Curious and relieved at the same time. It makes for a wonderful scent on his skin. Like lilac and soapstone. Light and earthy, something entirely Jaskier that makes Eskel want to bottle up the scent and douse himself with daily.

"You're taking this exceptionally well."

Eskel shrugs. Now that they're not dying by drowning and the leshy means him no harm, he's calmed down. They escaped capture from Nilfgaard and death from the monster.

His shoulder still aches, but he ignores it again in favor of reaching out to his bard.

"You're still you." He says and the smile on Jaskier's face is worth whatever scars he may bear from the leshy.

He'd lance himself a thousand times just to stay by Jaskier's side. Desiccate himself just to drink in the beauty that is his bard. He'd defy the gods for him. Which should be a terrifying realization for a Witcher, to be so controlled by someone as to forsake all others. It goes against the code they all took to protect the inhabitants of the contient.

But Eskel would sooner raise it to the ground than see his bard gone.

Jaskier blesses him with a kiss upon his cheek, right over his scars.

"My darling Witcher." He sings.

"My sweet little lark." Eskel responds.

They stay locked in the bubble of their love, ignorant to all else around them. Birds come and go, the skies open up, and sheets of rain come pouring down. Had their clothes not already been weighed down by the river, they'd be soaked.

As it is, they're wet, but happy.

"We have to keep going." Jaskier says.

"I know."

"The leshy will only hold them back for so long."

"I know."

Jaskier's mischievous smiles creeps onto his cheeks then. One hand planted on his hip with enough sass that Eskel should find amusing. But he's too busy staring into his bard's eyes to give it the attention it deserves.

"Do you know of any other words than 'I know'? You should know that I am a bard and I thrive on words. I cannot be starved of them, even by a Witcher."

"I'm aware."

Jaskier cackles, absolutely delighted by Eskel's cheek.

"Silly Wolf." He sighs.

Eskel turns them then, arm thrown protectively over his bard's shoulders. He leads them off to the woods, where they'll hopefully find the path needed to reach Loc Grim.

"Tough little Lark." Eskel says, placing one last kiss on the bard's temple.

Chapter Text

Searching for Loc Grim, the body of water and the fortress, feels near impossible.

They've evaded another two groups of guards and nearly tripped another three traps. The last trap they had to bypass it entirely as it turns out it's not so much of a trap, but a magically reinforced ward.

Jaskier believes that the ward is for the loc. Something powerful must reside in those waters. Something that Nilfgaard doesn't want anyone stumbling upon. Even Eskel can feel the strength in the warding, and his magic is nowhere near as strong as Jaskier's.

They pass through a barren wood, on their way around the loc. The trees are cut, sacrificed for Nilfgaard's war. Jaskier looks ill just walking through it.

Eskel can't begin to imagine how this feels for a Fae. He's a guardian of the forest and all creatures in nature.

Eskel's disturbed by it simply because he knows just how many things can be wrought from wood. Some of these trees will become warships. Others bows and arrows. 

And whatever won't be used to take the lives of innocents will be used to house those responsible. 

Jaskier stays close to his side, staring straightforward until they've passed the dead wood. Eskel knows the bard would prefer as much distance from the barren forest as possible, but he stops before they're halfway through it.

Eskel hears something. Not quite nature yet not exactly man. Closing his eyes, the Witcher tries to concentrate. To hear past all other distractions nearby-- the ward's tremoring energy, his and Jaskier's treading, the ground grumbling.

There's something coming, but for the life of him, Eskel can't tell what.

Jaskier catches him by the shoulder, drawing him back to the empty clearing in which they now stand.

"Eskel?" He starts, voice shaking.

His eyes open then, searching the clearing until finally landing on his bard.

"I think we've walked through an enchantment."

Eskel looks down then.

The ground is uneven. Rolling mounds of small hills, hills that he quickly realizes are graves. And they reach nearly eight meters across the dead wood.

What he was hearing was both then.

Both man and nature.

The dead are digging themselves out of their graves.

"Shit."

Grabbing Jaskier's hand, he starts running through the clearing, dragging the bard behind him. Necromantic magic had been banned by the Brotherhood decades ago. But, seeing as Nilfgaard regularly uses fire magic, nothing is out of their reach. They will use whatever they have to protect their land.

Including their own dead it seems.

Hands stretch out from the ground in supplication, a faux prayer to the pouring skies above. The hands grab at their ankles, trying so desperately to escape what must surely be hell. Eskel isn't waiting around to ask.

This is too many dead to handle. Even for a Witcher and a Fae.

The rain makes the earth soft, both for the corpses currently prying themselves free, and for Eskel and Jaskier's boots. It's like running through quicksand. But he doesn't give a damn whether or not they might lose a shoe, they've got to get the fuck out of here.

An arm shoots out from underfoot then, nearly tripping the Witcher.

Eskel manages to pass it safely, but Jaskier isn't as successful. Crashing into Eskel's back and nearly taking them both to the ground.

"Fuck the mages, I'll clear us a path." Eskel growls. Running isn't working. Not with this rain. They'll face hell from the dead or the living. And he'd much rather face something that doesn't have to dig itself up.

Pulling the bard to his side, he casts an igni so large and far that it nearly burns a hole through the foliage on the other side of the dead wood.

They run through the burning embers of what remains, crushing scorched earth and bone alike. He shall never forget the stench.

Rotting, burning flesh. Mucked up mud and sweat.

And fear.

So much fucking fear that his gut twists.

They're nearly to the sanctuary that is the woods when Jaskier's hand is ripped from his.

Eskel whips around, finally seeing the dead behind them. The ones that survived his flame have dragged themselves up, followed closely by those unburned.

One of which has Jaskier pinned to the ground.

Jaskier yells, fighting to keep the corpse's face away when Eskel rushes to his aide. He doesn't hesitate to remove the corpse of its head. Bringing the bard upright, they stand back to back.

"Keep the ones behind us at bay." He commands. The path ahead is no longer clear. The fire has since been doused by the rain.

With his sword in hand, trusting the bard to follow, Eskels charges forward.

Decaying bodies don't always bleed. Exsanguinated of every last drop of blood in their bodies, absorbed by the soil, same as their flesh. The threads they wore in life have started to deteriorate, clothes hanging off of their arms in tatters. The more stubborn materials, leather and metal, are all that keep their ghoul-like bodies covered. Belts and buckles, buttons and fasteners, clinging to the threads that still remain.

Eskel cuts through their torsos, cleaving heads off completely. Jaskier fights as many as he can at once. Using his powers to open the earth and reclaim the bodies once buried there. Three fall at once, devoured by the ground, encouraged to return to their rest and never come back.

Jaskier weaves vines over his head, fighting like a sea creature, tentacles wrapping around weaker foes and tearing them apart.

Everything is going as well as they can manage when Eskel hears something whistle through the air. Flying right past his head when he turns.

Only his quick reflexes can catch the arrow, ending its damning journey. The bard barely pays the threat on his life any mind, too busy taking care of the dead to notice the living.

"Don't you dare stop, you hear me?" Eskel asks.

Jaskier doesn't answer with words, simply shows his acceptance by throwing a dead body straight through the advancing band of soldiers.

He'll leave the dead to nature, and the Fae controlling it. As for the living, he'll see to them personally.

Aard sends more soldiers stumbling into each other, ten falling straight to the ground.

Jaskier tips the earth until the dead go spilling into the living. They attack the soldiers just as quickly as they had Jaskier and Eskel.

It seems there is no allegiance for the dead. The resurrected will take whomever is near and full of life.

Stupid mages. They hadn't known how to properly wield their necromantic powers and their reanimated dead were quickly becomming uncontrollable.

He uses the time Jaskier's distraction has caused to send one last burst of aard at the company, sending countless off their feet and into the trees. Twisting, Eskel rushes toward the bard, catching his arm just as it's poised to launch another attack.

He pulls them in the opposite direction, back the way the came, not sparing a second glance at the soldiers behind them.

It goes against most of his training for fighting and waging battle, running away. But if they run away now, they'll stand a chance later.

At least, thats what Eskel thinks until they fall into a pit trap.

The ground gives way suddenly underneath them. Had they not been running so blindly, Eskel might have seen the odd manner in which the ground was sunken in.

But it's too late now. Eskel twists his back to bare the brunt of their fall. When he hits the ground, the air is punched right out of his lungs.

He gasps in shock, coughing when Jaskier quickly rolls off of him in surprise.

"Esk," Jaskier trembles. The Witcher has his eyes clenched shut, carefully regaining his breath.

Its cold down here, in this pit. The earth is jagged and he can feel more than one stone digging uncomfortably into the back of his gambeson.

All Witchers can see in the dark, so he's not worried about what he won't see, he's worried about what he will.

The bard's hands carefully frame his face, tender in a way the Witcher is slowly becomming familiar with. His bard cares for him so much that it pains him to think about sometimes.

Slowly, Eskel opens his eyes.

The darkness isn't so blinding to the bard as the pit they're in is lined with glimmering minerals. That explains the jagged welcome they received on landing.

As Eskel slowly pushes himself up, Jaskier frets over him the entire time. With his hands now underneath him, balancing him, Eskel finally gets the first real grasp of their situation.

This isn't a simple mineral deposit.

This is a pit, that much is true. Dug intentionally for creatures and people like him.

Witchers.

Magic users.

This pit is lined with demitrium, rendering him powerless.

And judging by the worried eyes the Fae keeps shooting him, so is Jaskier.

Chapter Text

By the time Nilfgaard's soldiers catch them, Jaskier has tried everything just shy of attempting flight to escape the pit. But it's no use.

Eskel is braced, ready to pounce on anyone that comes down the pit when a round metal bomb comes sailing through the air.

Eskel doesn't bother with quen, already knowing it won't work, and throws himself on top of Jaskier. The explosion rocks them both, sending them on a collision course with the wall. 

Try as he might, he can't protect Jaskier from everything. The bard cracks his head upon the rough interior of the dimeritium deposit, almost instantly falling unconscious. The Witcher catches himself at the last second, avoiding a similar fate.

His hands are busy holding onto his lover. His senses are shot. Ears ringing and eyes blinded by the smoke. When they come down into the pit, he's too overwhelmed to sense them.

He feels hands close around his arms and yells. The bard is wrenched from his grasp, evoking another shout. Swinging blindly at the threat, the Witcher staggers on his feet.

It doesn't take much more than a single, well-placed strike across the head to render him unconscious.

*      *      *

When he wakes, it's behind a set of dimeritium bars and void of his personal possessions. He sits up with a gasp, blinking furiously in the darkness.

"Lark?" He whispers.

The bars surround him almost entirely, save for the brick wall at his left.

He notices through the bars on the right that there's another cage.

And inside it-

"Jaskier!"

The bard lies slumped on the floor. There are small cots in both of their cells, but the guards couldn't have been bothered to place their prisoners so gently within their confines.

Eskel, senses still muted from the smoke bomb, pulls himself up to the bars. He feels like a slug. Slow, and thanks to the sweat and grime, slimy.

He calls for Jaskier again, this time gaining a response.

Shoulders twist as the bard rolls onto his stomach. His face is pale, there's a green hue to it and Eskel's not surprised when he suddenly gags.

The head wound is probably to blame for the nausea. The full-body tremors though... Eskel doesn't know what's to blame for those.

"Jask, please." He begs, needing the Fae to look at him. To give him a sign that he's alright.

Or, as alright as he can be given the circumstances. 

"W-what is that?" The bard asks, rocking into himself, undoubtedly feeling the effects of prolonged exposure to dimeritium.

"It's the bars, stay away from them, okay? We'll find a way out of here–

"No." Jaskier sits up, eyes clenched and teeth grit. "The Witchers will come to us. We just have to wait for them."

Them?

Eskel has only ever thought they were looking for one Witcher. Just how many was Jaskier expecting? And how long did he think they could survive here?

"Bard, we cannot stay here. D'you know where we are? We're in Nilfgaard. Not outside anymore. We're right here, smack in the middle. They'll pry us apart trying to get information. And that's without the mages."

Eskel, ignoring his own advice, sits right beside the bars connecting their two cells.

"Jaskier, please. We cannot save everyone."

Jaskier's shoulder is turned to him, face tucked low to his chest, hiding from his Witcher.

"How long until they bring the mages?"

Eskel blinks, opening his mouth in protest when the bard cuts him off, tersely repeating himself. The Witcher sighs.

"Last I heard, Yennefer had gone off to Aretuza to meet with the other mages to appeal to the Brotherhood. They were looking into Nilfgaard's chaos. They heard rumors of forbidden magics-- which we can attest to being true.

This could be another Sodden. It could take weeks for the mages to come. Months, even. Depending on what's happening on the war front."

Jaskier nods, shoulders pulled back, straightening up. That was an undeniable look of pure resolve.

The Witcher clenches his fists, ready to beat at the bars of their prison despite the bard's wishes. It didn't matter what Witchers were left. They'd survive this hell longer than Jaskier could.

The lack of light in the corridor sent a shiver down Jaskier's spine. He wouldn't last long without sunlight.

Nature.

The warmth of another living being.

He reaches out hesitantly. Calling to the bard one last time, pleading for him to come closer.

And when Jaskier does, Eskel wishes he could kiss him.

He settles for holding the bard through the bars, long after he's fallen back asleep.

Eskel does not long for the trials that lie in wait ahead. He doesn't know what information the bard still possesses about Geralt or Ciri or anything, really. He doesn't know how long it will take before they discover Jaskier's true nature.

How long it will take for them to exploit it.

To torture Eskel with it.

His hands tighten around the bard's chest. Trying, in vain, to pull him closer.

It doesn't take them long at all.

They come later that same day— or that night. Eskel can't tell without a gods damned window to track the time.

He just knew that they weren't going to let them get acquainted with their cells for long. That must mean they know who Jaskier is.

It won't take long for them to discover who Eskel is.

His medallion is gone, lost somewhere between here and the river. They'll know that he's a Witcher, but it'll take them time and effort to find out which school he's from.

A man comes striding down the corridor, cocky and dressed in black armour. There's a fluttering feather sticking out of the top of his helmet. It shakes when the knight lifts it off his head.

A broad face greets them, smarmy and slimy as he grins. Eskel hates him already.

"My name is Cahir and you are prisoners of the great White Flame. Our scouts have been following the tracks of two travelers, one bearing a striking resemblance to Jaskier the bard. Or rather, Jaskier, the White Wolf's bard."

Eskel doesn't release his hold on the Fae, growling at the knight before their cells. A burning, hissing red haze clouds him, encouraging all manner of reckless thought. Beating songs of vengence in his heart and mind should this man threaten his lover.

The call of the wolf is much too strong to resist. It snarls when Cahir motions two guards to open the bard's cell.

Eskel must be bruising Jaskier with how tightly he clenches onto the smaller man.

Jaskier, having woken up from his rest just as Cahir came upon their cells, immediately realizes the danger that he's in. Fingers clutch onto Eskel's hands just as fiercely in return, scrabbling up his arms when the guards approach.

Just as one dares to lay a hand upon his bard, the Witcher jumps to his feet. The guard, not yet realizing how close he is to the Witcher, makes the mistake of leaning in.

Down towards the bard, his hands reach. Before he can so much as lay a finger on Jaskier's fine– but dirtied– doublet, Eskel's got his throat underhand.

The guard's helmet doesn't protect him much when Eskel jerks his head into the bars once, twice, three times before Cahir comes into the call to drag the bard out himself.

He's got a blade pointed underneath Jaskier's chin by the time Eskel drops his tin soldier.

"Calm down beast. We're just going to have a little chat."

Eskel lunges at the bars, yelling as the black knight drags the bard out of the cell and down the dark corridor. Another soldier waits with a lit torch, leading them out until Eskel's left once more in the blackness and silence.

The quiet doesn't last.

Eskel fills the prison with sounds of rage. His screams must be heard all throughout the dungeon, to wherever they must have taken Jaskier.

Why didn't he fight back?

The Fae had proven his capabilities more than once on the path. Travelling with Geralt all those years and never once disclosing his inhuman powers. His brother told tales of Jaskier sharp tongue and even sharper knives.

How the bard had threatened just as many people as he fucked along the path.

Eskel shakes himself.

That's not fair for him to think.

Jaskier was injured, slow from the wound he took to the head and even slower thanks to the dimeritium poisoning him.

Eskel didn't even know that dimeritium could hurt the Fae.

He thought iron was their only weakness.

Kicking at his cot, the Witcher lets out one last groan. The Fae might not have many weaknesses, but Eskel sure does.

Jaskier being the biggest one of all.

What secrets wouldn't he give in exchange for Jaskier's release?

Anything.

Everything.

So long as it would ensure his bard's safety. He'd give it all up.

The Witcher sits back on the ground, his elbows resting upon bent knees, chin in hand.

They were fucked.

Chapter Text

There's no reappearance of the guards until later. Much later.

Eskel's sat meditating for who knows how long, worrying, praying, dreading. His arse has gone numb.

Just about at wits end, picking shrapnel from a cut on his arm from the bomb, Eskel finally hears something.

Three sets of footsteps, marching in-step. Soldiers.

The guards have come back, but it's unclear whether or not they're here for Eskel or bringing back the bard. He's slow getting to his feet. Having already calculated the points of his cell looking for weak spots, he knows there are none.

The only way out is through the cell door. And the only way to open that is with a key.

Fucking bastards.

For centuries, the continent thought nothing much of the Nilfgaardians, and now. Here they all were, either running for their lives or trying to kiss their arses as quickly as possible.

He can count on one hand the number of times he's travelled this far south for contracts. Generally the Vipers manage this territory, Cats too. The warmer climate something of a balm for their Witcher senses.

Eskel can imagine the lack of vegetation, animals, and people must prove a blessing to the Viper School. Less noise, fewer smells, and no humans.

That just meant they had to work twice as hard to procure ingredients for potions, and fight creatures just as venomous as they are.

He doesn't smell any lingering scents of other Witchers, but there are quite a few scents suffocating any traces of pheromones. Namely the stench of piss and shit.

But that's prison for you.

To Eskel, the scents are overwhelming, he can only imagine Geralt in a place like this. He could barely survive two days in the city, the sounds alone enough to drive him crazy.

Geralt would be able to tell the guards intentions from here.

The leather that they wore on their hands, the type of blade oil they used for their swords. Hells. He'd probably be able to tell what that noise was behind them.

All Eskel can tell is that they're wearing leather, he couldn't name the animal it came from. He knows their swords are polished and kept in good order because of the oil, but the ingredients? Inconclusive from this distance.

And that sound?

To him, it sounds like they might be carrying something heavy. Dragging it more like—

Eskel rushes to the bars.

The faint light of a torch winks at him from down the corridor.

Taking in a deep breath, he tries picking up notes of anything familiar to Jaskier's scent. Flowers, parchment, ink, or even lute oil.

At first, all he can smell is the dirt and stone of the prison. The metallic stench of the bars underhand. The burning of his own flesh as he holds onto them.

He tries again. Closing his eyes and concentrating.

The guards armour clinks and rattles with every step, and that sound. That dragging sound continues.

He picks up another metallic scent the closer the torchlight comes. And it isn't from the bars.

No, that's iron.

From blood.

Weak notes of flowers come then and tears pool in the Witcher's eyes.

That's his flower.

His precious petal.

The torch and it's bearer finally reveal themselves to Eskel, lighting up the entire hall with warmth. As quickly as it came, though, the warmth dissipates as behind the torch bearer, two guards approach.

Dragging Jaskier between them.

"You bastards. I'll kill you. Tear the meat right off of your bones and feed it to you." Eskel barks, slamming his hands against the cage like the trapped hound he is.

The guards slow, almost surprised to see him there. Like they forgot they captured a Witcher. Much less one so hellbent on protecting the bard.

"Your mothers will have nothing left to bury. I swear you this. If I get out of here, I will slaughter each and everyone of you."

One of the guards holding Jaskier looks frightened, yet he opens his fucking mouth like he's not.

"You're a prisoner of the White Flame–

"Fuck the White Flame." Eskel growls.

The guard that spoke reels back as though Eskel struck him.

He looks young, face bare of any markings indicating war or battle.

A whelp. Barely off the hip, playing at being a soldier. This is who Nilfgaard has running about the continent creating chaos?

He's so busy glaring at the boy that he doesn't notice Cahir's arrival until he's right behind the guards.

"Oh come now, Witcher, you and I both know that the White Flame will succeed in taking over the continent. He'll start with Cintra. Once he has what he needs."

Jaskier hangs limp, head hung between his shoulders, face concealing his level of consciousness. But whether he was awake or not changes when Cahir places a hand in his hair, wrenching his head back.

Eskel's heart stutters in his chest. The bard looks like a mess. His eye is black, lip split and the wound from his head has reopened. Half of is face is covered in blood.

Holding his hands and his breath, Eskel lifts his gaze to the knight.

Now that is not a boy. That is a soldier that has experienced battle and is willing to do whatever it takes to please his commander.

He carries himself with a regal air, ready to command these boys like a true general. If he weren't here, in this prison, Eskel would have mistaken him for one.

But Cahir's just as trapped as they are. Left to torture instead of ride for the glory of his country. Eskel can see that shame simmering behind his eyes.

Cahir doesn't want to be here, and he's willing to do anything to get out. Including gathering information from a cracked bard and feral Witcher. Anything that will help the White Flame and put him in his good graces.

The Witcher smirks.

What did Cahir do to fall out of them?

"Learn anything?" Eskel taunts.

Jaskier looks upset, which Eskel will apologize for later. But they both know that he doesn't have what the White Flame is looking for.

Jaskier dumped it out of his head ages ago.

Clever little sparrow.

Eskel will tend to him once he's back in his cell, as for now, the Witcher pretends that he knows something that Cahir does not. Which he does.

It'll get their attention off of Jaskier and onto Eskel.

They'll leave the bard alone to torture the information out of him instead. But Eskel can handle pain.

That's what Witchers are made out of. That's how their whole lives are spent. And that is what they all eventually die in.

Cahir's mouth is pinched. He's obviously displeased.

Good.

Fuck the White Flame and fuck Cahir too.

"Drop the bard. Take the Witcher."

Eskel smiles.

Chapter Text

A pattern emerges in the days that proceed Jaskier's initial interrogation.

They beat Eskel daily, trying to get him to talk. But he's given just as good as he's gotten. It is a battle getting him out of his cage everyday.

Countless guards have run screaming down the halls, wounded in whatever way Eskel saw fit at the time. He's broken noses and arms, kicked teeth in and cracked ribs, and then they discovered his weakness to dimeritium bombs.

Oh how often he wakes to one bouncing into his cage.

Once, he managed to catch it and sent it right back to the guards.

That was one day that they were forced to leave him be. Stuck repairing the damage done to the corridor and all the soldiers involved.

Now they're smarter.

They cut the fuse shorter, so even if he catches it, there isn't enough time to send it back.

His hand still smarts from the one that blew up mid-throw a week ago. His wounds still heal, despite the dimeritium poison. He is a Witcher after all.

As for Jaskier's injuries, he's had to tend to them carefully. He's more susceptible to illness thanks to the bars of his enclosure.

The water they get is minimal, barely enough to quench their daily thirst. Eskel rations his to keep the cut on Jaskier's head clean.

He can go much longer without water than the Fae can. Witchers are basically drought resistant. They can survive dehydration, poison, and hunger. Fae are similar, to his knowledge. Frankly, they don't require food at all.

But without the sun, Jaskier needs every bit of nutrients that Eskel can scrounge up.

He's pale. Trembling in the night and wretching up whatever he managed to stomach the day before.

How long can he go without light?

They measure the days by each time the guards come for Eskel. It's been roughly two weeks and they've settled into something of a routine.

Jaskier slowly adapts to the stinging effects of the dimeritium, oftentimes falling asleep beside the bars, petting Eskel's hair.

Try as he might, he cannot tend to Eskel the way the Witcher tends to him. Arms too weak to hold the Witcher's dwindling weight, mouth too dry to form words of comfort.

It's enough just reaching out to Eskel some nights. His presence seems like a balm to the Witcher, just knowing that he's there. And when he can, he sings.

Silly songs that he has no words to, melodies that he makes up rhymes for. Anything to get his love to smile.

Eskel is strong. He never comes over to Jaskier when he's been received a fresh beating. Tries tending to his wounds alone first before approaching their shared wall.

Jaskier hadn't allowed that to go on very long, going so far as to refuse eating if the Witcher didn't let him see the true extent of the damage. He won't let Eskel suffer alone.

Jaskier might not know much, but he knows that Eskel is doing this for him.

They're laying beside one another, separated by the bars like always when Jaskier senses something. His Witcher is resting, sleeping for the first time in days. Coaxed asleep by a song about hens, of all things.

A line scrunches between the Witcher's brows when Jaskier pulls his hand from Eskel's hair. Jaskier settles him with a whisper of reassurance.

Shakily getting to his feet, Jaskier totters across the cell to the corridor where something is scampering about. He can't hear as well as Eskel, but he can sense the living. Not quite the beating of a heart or the breath to one's lungs, more so the very vibrancy— the song— of their souls.

No torchlight reveals itself to the bard. A set of scrabbling little feet appears instead.

A smile jumps onto his face and Jaskier quickly drops to his knees. Hands open for the mouse that approaches, the Fae welcomes its weight on eager palms.

"Hello," he laughs.

The mouse responds, whiskers tickling the hint of a beard on the bard's face. It looks lively, fairing much better than Jaskier and Eskel at any rate.

"You're a very fine scavenger, aren't you?"

Eskel murmurs something in his sleep, drawing the bard's attention briefly away from the mouse. He's less joyous conversing with the mouse afterwards.

"I've something to tell you, and you mustn't tell a soul." The mouse's tail twists as it tries to balance itself in Jaskier's ever moving hands.

He's sitting on his bottom now, tucked carefully on the other side of the cell so that Eskel won't hear him.

The Witcher makes Jaskier pace himself with his share of food, never sure when the guard's will bring their next meal. As parse as the meals are, they feed them twice a day.

Well, technically, they feed Jaskier two times a day.

When they're pulling Eskel out from his cell, they toss in a round of bread through Jaskier's bars, sometimes even a block of cheese.

He's currently holding a pinch of cheese in his hand now, waiting to barter it in exchange for a secret.

Jaskier can't ever recall sharing memories with an animal before. So he starts with something small.

A song that he sang to Eskel just yesterday after helping the Witcher reset a pair of broken fingers.

The song rolls off of his tongue lightly, gentle in this quiet night.

These scars have yearned for your tender caress.

To bind our fortunes, damn what the stars own.

Rend my heart open,

Then your love profess.

A winding, weaving fate

To which we both atone.

He cannot remember whose song this is. Who it was written for. Who taught it to him. He knows all the words to the somber song. Though, yesterday, he could not sing the lyrics as originally written. For Eskel did not smell like berries or lilacs.

His Witcher smelled like fire, of black embers fleeing the hearth on a cold winter's morn. His hands however, always smelled like peonies. The camellia oil he used for polishing his weapons smelled faint, a barely present scent only fragrant on flesh and fabrics.

Strong and sweet, his Eskel.

Golden eyes, glistening as you weep.

The Wolf I will follow into the storm.

To find your heart, its passion displaced

By ire ever growing,

Hardening into stone.

Amidst the cold to hold you

In a heated embrace.

You flee my dreams come morning...

Heavy eyes watch the mouse accept the cheese between its tiny paws. His breath is visible in the dark cell, trembling as it leaves him. Jaskier feels warm trails of tears cascading down his cheeks.

He's missing something.

No, he's mourning something.

A piece of him that he cannot remember. He has felt this before, after having encountered one of his Witchers along the path.

The Fae scours his brain, trying to reconcile whatever it is that he's lost.

Some things feel like a waterfall flowing over a growing chasm. Splitting his head until he cannot remember what he ate that morning.

He hears waves now, crashing over one another inside his mind, growing. Growing into an ocean.

Rolling over the beaches of his sanity. Leaving nothing but a bubbling foam of laughter that Jaskier cannot choke down.

It is manic, his laugh. Tears are still falling from his eyes. Come morning, he will learn that they are now more blue than they were before. Meaning whatever he gave to the mouse was accepted.

Jaskier curls around the creature on the cold stone floor of his cell, trying— pleading for it to stay.

He doesn't know what memory he traded, nor why he had to give it up. But he wants it back so desperately that it's gnawing at his soul.

Why must he break himself apart?

Who is he protecting?

The pieces that once made up the very essence of his being are fractured. Split every which direction across the contient, some he knows will never be recovered again.

Eskel will face the guards in the morning, and they will begin their routine anew. The Witcher was painted in black and blue bruises. Yellow in some parts, those that have had the chance to heal while the Nilfgaardians tortured some other part of him.

Perhaps it was something to do with Eskel. The memory.

They can only try for so long before they finally realize that Eskel doesn't have what they need.

They will come for Jaskier eventually.

As much as it hurts, chipping off pieces of his soul, chiseling his heart, bit by bit; he will continue to do so. For Eskel.

He falls asleep like that. With his hands cradling his precious memory.

The screaming ocean drowns out all other sounds, even those of scampering little feet abandoning his open palms.

Chapter Text

Something's different about the bard.

As soon as Eskel wakes the next day, he can feel it in the air.

And he can see it with his own two fucking eyes.

Jaskier's irises have grown, practically eradicating the last sliver of white to his eyes.

He looks like a hirikka.

His gaunt face isn't helping matters either.

Jaskier shouldn't be here, he doesn't belong here. He won't survive much longer.

Eskel has scrounged the deepest parts of his mind, trying to recall some piece of information that might help them now. That might help Jaskier.

The bard smiles at him, crooning at his scars as he begins his morning odes. It was unnerving at first, listening to all the bard thought and felt about him. How he saw Eskel. The man beneath the Witcher mutagens, beneath the scars...

There was no doubting his feelings any longer.

He loved Jaskier.

And watching him fade away, memory by memory, was slowly killing Eskel.

"Please, Lark, come closer. I- I long to look into your eyes," he breathes. Despite it being an excuse, it's true. The Witcher never tires of swimming in the depths of the bard's blue gaze.

Jaskier's smile widens, he practically bounces up to the bars separating their two cells. There's an energy permeating throughout the air, shrouding the Fae like a shawl. He shouldn't be this lively.

He's been weak for days. Starved of the sun and barely surviving on the scraps of Eskel's presence and conversation.

Petting the side of Jaskier's face, Eskel looks down into his eyes.

"Did you see something last night?" He asks.

Jaskier nuzzles into Eskel's palm, his own hands coming up around it, pressing the Witcher's big hand closer to his face.

"A vistor came last night. I shared my cheese." He explains.

Eskel immediately looks up, over to the cell across the hall from them. It's empty.

"Who did you see, dove?"

"Pris." He says, as if that was enough of an answer alone.

Eskel frowns.

"Is- is Pris a guard? Did someone try and talk to you last night? You should have woken me I-"

"Was sleeping." Jaskier interjects. He pulls back, still holding onto Eskel's hand between his, tracing the lines of his palm softly. "You should be resting now, Wolf. It won't be very much longer before the black bird comes."

"Black bird?"

Jaskier nods.

"The black bird that flies into your cage. He's awfully pushy."

Eskel sighs. This is all starting to sound like horse shoe talk. Fantastical nonsense that makes little sense to anyone but the Fae creature before him. Like horses wearing human shoes. Or black birds instead of bastard knights.

The bard definitely gave something away last night. Apparently to someone named "Pris".

Meletile's tits.

"Jaskier, please, I need you to try and remember who Pris is. Do you have any idea what you might have given them?"

The bard blinks. Just when Eskel fears an onslaught of blood, an outpouring of red from the Fae's eyes, ears, and nose, Jaskier starts laughing.

He drops the Witcher's hand, taking a step back before Eskel can reach out for him. Jaskier turns on his heel, dancing in a circle just beyond his lover's grasp.

"I don't know, I don't know. Isn't it wonderful? I don't know." He giggles.

Bells are chiming throughout the corridor. Called forth from the bard's lips. If he isn't quiet, someone will hear. And they'll find out what Jaskier is.

Contrary to the glee in his tone, Jaskier smells too much like misery for Eskel to believe his words. The bard truly doesn't know what information he gave away last night. He might not even remember who Pris is.

Shit.

Fucking fuck.

He won't be able to sleep if the guards are coming at night, secretly taking information from the bard without Eskel's posturing presence around to distract them. Eskel looks to his own cell door, dreading the coming interrogation. The more they beat him, the more rest he requires.

Healing takes time. Time that they are barely giving him as is.

They need information, and right now, Eskel isn't giving them any.

Perhaps they already know about the bard's Fae nature. They could be manipulating him in some way while Eskel sleeps.

They'll have to sleep closer.

Closer than they already are.

And Eskel will have to keep a firm grip on the bard. Maybe even keeping a loose hand around his jaw, preventing the guards from stealing secrets in the night.

The Witcher can't risk losing sleep now. He can't.

Just sitting up some days is a struggle. Let alone continuing his fight against the guards. Every time they pull Eskel from his cell is a battle. Trying to find a weakness in their holds and spitting spiteful gobs of blood during their interrogation.

They cannot see their efforts working. Each new day the beatings grow worse, steadily turning into torture. As strong and inhuman as he is, and as long as his life might be, he is still mortal. He can still die of exhaustion. Of starvation. Of dehydration.

It is all an act, for both Nilfgaard and Jaskier. Eskel must present himself as invincible. Must pretend like their interrogation techniques aren't effective methods of plying information out of him. A human would have given up their wives, brothers, and mothers by this point.

Footsteps start down the hall, filling his stomach with a gnawing sense of dread. Again, the bard will be alone.

Eskel can only hope that Pris does not come during his absence.

Chapter Text

There's a nose snuffling through his hair.

"Please, Dove. I beg of you, let me sleep." Eskel moans.

The nose is soft and pointed, cold at the tip. It nuzzles through the hair laying haphazardly around his face. Jaskier's wiry beard hairs tickle his cheeks.

Eskel reaches up to stop him, one arm trapped beneath the bard's head on the other side of the bars, the other abandons Jaskier's hip.

Swatting at the hairs, a squeak fills his ears, bringing a reluctant smile to the Witcher's face.

"Well, if you wouldn't root your little nose through my scalp this early in the morn, your hair might be safe from my 'big witchery hands'." 

The Fae had been in a playful mood upon Eskel's return, despite the blood and bruises. Eyes still as big as Eskel left them, leaving the Witcher with little choice but to accept them and move on. The bard was practically bouncing in place, jittering like a Witcher's medallion.

He wouldn't settle for anything.

Not songs, (sung out of tune, but songs nonetheless) nor fairy tales.

Jaskier just wanted to flit and flail about his cell like one would trapped within a Faerie circle. He dances in a manner most mesmerizing, arms raised above his head, musician-long fingers trickling through the air. His hips swayed in a way that brought Eskel right up to the bars that separated them.

It made all pain caused by his most recent beating become distant memories.

Every time Jaskier danced past Eskel, the Witcher would reach out to try and snatch up the Faerie like a child capturing a butterfly. How beautiful Jaskier was. Eskel longed to admire him with his hands.

But Jaskier would move away just before the Witcher's hands could brush against his back or arm, a teasing smile playing on his lips. A challenge sat behind those great big eyes, daring Eskel to catch.

He felt like a dog, tongue lolling out of his mouth, practically salivating at the sight that was his bard.

Each time he would miss, Jaskier would chide him for his "big witchery hands" nearly ruining his special dance.

Eskel caught him eventually.

And they lay that night together closer than they have before. At least, here, in Cahir's prison.

They've built up a certain tolerance to the affect of the dimeritium bars. The burning sensation and magical surpression a barely present sensation against Eskel's already bruised and bandaged arms.

As far as Eskel knows, no one came to their cell last night.

Pris had not called upon the bard to collect anymore secrets.

Eskel opens his eyes as Jaskier's little cold nose presses itself right against his cheek.

Beady black eyes peer up at him, framed by a set of pin-straight whiskers and two pale grey ears.

Flinching back in surprise, Eskel pulls his arms free from under the bard. One hand rears itself back, ready to deliver a deathly blow to the rodent staring up at him, sat unbothered on its hind legs.

However before Eskel can crush the creature, Jaskier shouts, "NO!"

Quickly scooping the mouse into his hands, Jaskier twists away from the Witcher, shielding the creature from any potential harm. His doublet acting like armor, a fading red, still as vibrant and true as the bard wearing it.

"Jaskier! You can't keep it, it's not a pet. It can carry sickness. And we're both weak enough that we might catch— and potentially succumb to— whatever disease it has."

The bard remains stubbornly locked in position. Back turned and upper body curled protectively around the creature.

"Pris isn't sick, she's as healthy as a horse."

Eskel clenches his eyes shut. "Jaskier you don't know that--

"Yes I do! I can feel her, she's right here with all the others," Jaskier protests, tapping the side of his head with a pointed finger.

"Right there-

Eskel stops suddenly.

Pris.

The mouse's name is Pris.

And Jaskier gave a memory away the other night to someone named "Pris".

The Witcher heaves a sigh of relief, leaning against the bars like a shaky newborn fawn. Thank the gods.

The unease that had slowly started devouring Eskel's inside the day before was beginning to fade when the Witcher realized something.

The bard had given away a memory.

To a fucking mouse.

A new weight sits itself atop Eskel's shoulders, drawing him down one more inch. The fears he hadn't dared to voice on the path are quickly coming back to him. If this mouse dies, will Jaskier ever retain the memory he gave it?

Because, if not, they'll need to keep this little fucker alive long enough for Jaskier to take back that memory.

"Okay, Lark." He sighs, "We can keep it."

Every minute spent in the pull of Jaskier's allure makes all the hardships worth it. He'd keep a thousand mice alive if need be. As Jaskier turns around, carefully scrutinizing Eskel's face, trying to determine the truth behind his words, the Witcher looks down at the mouse.

Pris is small, barely taking up one of the bard's hands. She doesn't look flea-ridden or filthy.

She's actually quite sweet. It must be because she's currently carrying a piece of the bard.

Meaning Eskel can't help but love her too.

Gods damn it all.

Jaskier approaches slowly. Holding the mouse close before seemingly deciding Eskel trustworthy. Had they met in any other normal circumstance, the Witcher imagines this is what one would do to offer their lover a piece of themselves.

He and Jaskier's relationship has been nothing like that. They weren't exactly normal to begin with. Of course their relationship wouldn't be normal.

They skipped right past the stage of offering bits of information about themselves, jumping right into taking care of one another. Protecting each other. Love seemed like the most logical step to follow.

Eskel is mindful of the importance of this introduction. Even though it is merely a mouse, this mouse is important to the bard. In a way, it was the bard.

A very, very small piece, but Jaskier nonetheless.

And Eskel wanted to treasure it just like he did the rest of the bard.

Pris sniffs at his hands, undoubtedly searching for snacks. She's a very curious little creature. And Eskel makes sure to welcome her with open hands.

And when she ventures closer, crossing through the bars and onto Eskel's palms, a tingling sensation sinks into his hands and up his arms. As the mouse settles against his thumb, a song floats into the Witcher's mind.

He can hear Jaskier's voice, but the bard isn't singing right now.

This was the song he sang for Eskel the other day. After having come back from a particularly brutal beating, where Cahir had taken a mallet to his hands, Jaskier had calmed him as he set his bones back into place.

Singing a song about a lover and their wolf, whose eyes were gold and their embrace warm.

Liquid moistens in the corners of his eyes, taking him by surprise. Their hands are still close and Pris has grown bored of their lack of movement. As her tiny feet dance across his fingertips, Eskel can hear the song slowly fading.

When she is safely back in Jaskier's palms once more, the song is completely gone from his mind.

Half tempted to grab at the creature and test whether or not its song is still there, Eskel watches it nose about Jaskier's doublet. Probably hoping for more cheese.

"She's like a music box."

Jaskier looks up at him, head tilted and brows pulled together in confusion.

"Pardon?"

When a drop of blood falls from the Fae's nostril, Eskel shakes his head.

"Nothing, Lark. She's fine, just like you said."

The bard looks like he wants to protest, to push further against the barrier in his mind, blocking him from his lost memories. But he knows that trying to remember will only cause more pain.

Besides, he didn't have to remember.

Eskel said he'd do that for them. And, apparently, so will this little tiny mouse.

Chapter Text

The next morning starts off early.

Too early.

They've grown used to their daily ongoings. Such is life in prison.

Their lines have been written and rehearsed since their first night here. Eskel knows what guard stands where, and when. The rotations are precise, happening fairly often— denoting a competent commanding officer.

Their food schedule, while odd, follows a fairly decent pattern. They've even got piss breaks factored into their routine.

Nothing goes on in this corridor that Eskel isn't already aware of.

This is the first time the guards have ever gone off script.

Eskel wakes to footsteps in the hall, more sets than the usual for their regularly scheduled wake up call. Blearily sitting up, the Witcher watches the bard come to.

They don't stride past Jaskier's cell like they usually do.

Today, they walk right up to the bard's cell. Purposely seeking him out.

Eskel scrambles to his feet then, ignoring the pull of his injuries. Hands quickly clasp around dimeritium, the bars creak beneath his strength.

Not that he notices.

He's too busy watching them round up a semi-concious bard. They grab Jaskier by the arms, dragging him upright so fast that he startles awake.

"Wolf?" He calls, confused.

The arms around him, however, do not belong to his lover. Three guards are crammed inside of his cell. The two holding Jaskier up on either one of his sides, and the other, pointing a crossbow bolt at Eskel's head.

The threat alone is enough for Jaskier's feet to take up his weight and follow the guards without argue.

"Lark— it's okay," Eskel rushes, trying, but ultimately unable to follow the bard. He ends up at the door to his own cell then, clinging onto the bars for balance. "It'll be alright."

It's not.

It won't be.

He's a fucking liar.

These false platitudes are empty words, barely enough to ease the bard's worries, doing absolutely fuck all to ease his own.

The last two weeks were all for naught as they're back here again, the bard caught within the White Flame's clutches. Unable to break under interrogation as he has no information to reveal.

"Please!" Eskel cries. "Take me instead, he doesn't know anything!"

But his pleading goes unanswered. The guards continue marching the bard down the corridor, where he is surrounded by a small party to guide them.

That should be Eskel being led off to the interrogation chamber.

Jaskier should be here, safe.

Eskel promised him he would be safe.

"Fuck!" The Witcher screams.

He strikes out at the bars, rattling the very foundation they sit within, and the ceilings above.

Jaskier is led away, ignorant of the brutal line of questioning to come. He hadn't understand the first time, and he won't the second.

If anything, it'll be worse.

He's still giving up parts of himself, weakly casting memories aside in his delirium. There should be nothing left to give.

This wretched existence of a Witcher's life had been good for one thing and one thing only. Protecting those that could not protect themselves.

This is a foe that humans cannot face alone. The White Flame was evil. Immoral.

A monster.

That's what Witcher's are supposed to kill.

Yet— here Eskel stands, weeping in the aftermath of his lover being taken. Weak and powerless.

Slowly sliding downwards, his knees hit the ground, leaving him kneeling before the bars. His head hangs wearily. Shoulders hunched forward, a paltry attempt at shielding himself from the agony ahead.

Pain means nothing.

Death means nothing.

But Jaskier?

Jaskier is everything.

He is what Eskel turns to for warmth, the sun that lights his way in this dark prison. He is the very air that fills the Witcher's lungs, allowing him to breathe in the stagnant space within this cell. He is life.

Eskel needs him to live, or there will be no reason for him to continue on after.

The first day of what Eskel will soon learn is a new routine begins. 

And Eskel is helpless but to tag along for the journey.