#chaptersinprogress

Sighing, Ciri flopped onto her back and closed her eyes. Maybe she’d have better luck counting sheep...

1 little sheep, 2 little sheep, 3 little sheep...

She’d reached 741 sheep before rustling and a huff at her side broke her streak. Keeping her breathing in the even meditative cadence it had fallen into, Ciri opened her eyes just a fraction.

The dark form beside her huffed once more before sitting up. A short hiss escaped the figure, before it crawled out of the makeshift tent they lay beneath. 

Ciri opened her eyes fully and curled up on her side so that she could see out of the entrance better. She watched as the figure paced in circles round and round the campfire beside the tents.

The repetitive pattern of the action had nearly lulled her into a doze, when a whispered voice carried through the air.

“Yennefer?” she heard Jaskier ask. “What’s wrong?”

A new figure joined the one that had abruptly stopped moving by the fire. Ciri found herself now wide awake.

There was a long pause that hung in the air, Yennefer seeming to weigh her words, before she finally answered him quietly.

“Couldn’t sleep. Why are you up?”

Jaskier shrugged, the movement almost imperceptible to Ciri.

“Same here.”

The two of them stood by each other in silence, staring at the fire or out into the woods, Ciri couldn’t tell which. Minutes passed as such, and Ciri had about made up her mind to stop watching and attempt the sheep thing again when Yennefer spoke once more.

“Wanna talk about it?”

Ciri only caught the tail-end of a hastily stifled chuckle. Then Jaskier’s head tipped to the side a little, as if he was actually considering the idea, before it was shaken off.

“Maybe,” his voice quietly allowed. “But not today I think.”

Yennefer hummed.

The bard nudged her. “You have more than enough problems to solve at the moment anyway, nevermind adding mine to the mix.”

The sorceress inhaled, paused, then abruptly turned to him, her hand shooting out but the fingers coming to rest gently on his wrist. Jaskier froze.

Ciri couldn’t be certain but she’d bet the last three sweets in her pack that their resident magic-expert was staring intently at the place her fingers met the skin of Jaskier’s wrist.

“It’s… It’s not a hardship,” Yennefer said slowly. “If you have… problems… I… You’re my favourite sing-songy twit so…”

The muscles in the mage’s jaw worked hard, the movements highlighted by the flickering light cast by the fire. She glared at a point over the bard’s shoulder.

“Your problems are my problems too, okay?”

From the way Jaskier was gaping at Yennefer, Ciri could tell that he had been completely caught off guard by the sentiment. To be fair, Ciri hadn’t seen it coming either. Yennefer didn’t really come across as the type to express that sort of thing.

“Right… well…” Jaskier tripped over his tongue, which had Ciri biting her own to make sure her laughter couldn’t be heard. “Well you're my favourite sewer-dwelling she-hag, so your problems are my problems too!”

Now it was Yennefer’s turn to be thrown, violet eyes blowing wide open as she stared at Jaskier in disbelief.

Meanwhile Ciri had graduated from biting her tongue to biting the meat of her forearm to stifle the full-body laughter that shook her. Melitele help them all, this was almost as bad as when she had to watch Grandmama and Eist figure themselves out! It was like neither of them knew what to do with each other… and Geralt said that they’ve all known each other for a long time!

The two adults continued to just stare at each other.

“So, um, hugging!” Jaskier yelped out frantically. “Hugs—hugs are a thing we do now right—would you like a hug? A hug seems like a great idea right about now, really adds to the whole vibe we have going; though I really probably should stop taaaalkingggg…”

The bard’s voice trailed off as he abruptly found himself wrapped in a hug.

Ciri couldn’t help the soft coo that escaped her as she watched the two of them just stand awkwardly frozen for a few moments.

“I do believe a hug typically involves more than one person doing the hugging, Jaskier,” said Yennefer, her voice partially muffled by said man’s chest.

“Ah—right, right,” replied Jaskier frantically, startled into action, hands flailing a little before he gingerly rested them on the mage’s back.

The awkwardness lasted a little while longer, before the tension began to seep out of their muscles. Ever so slowly, they began to relax against each other—the distance between them vanishing into nothing—curling over and into each other until an onlooker wouldn’t be able to tell where one ended and the other began.

Ciri watched them for a long while: two bodies melded into a singular, more solid form, swaying gently side to side as the night breeze swirled around them. Her eyes grew heavier and heavier, the time between blinks stretching further and further, till she slipped easily into sleep’s embrace, the afterimage of the entwined figures lingering for just a few moments longer.

“Ok, so I may have not thought this through fully,” Boba muttered.

The three of them stood on the doorstep of the Fetts’ house—Grogu in Mando’s arms and their combined luggage strewn around their feet.

Mando turned to look at him, the subtle tilt of his helmet as expressive as a raised eyebrow. “Should we leave?”

“No!” Boba replied hastily. “No, it’s just,” he winced, the expression thankfully hidden under his buy’ce. “Buire, you know? They get excited after not seeing their ade for a while, so, uh, they might ask questions. A lot of questions. Because, I didn’t tell them much. Other than, y’know, the two of you coming with.”

There was a brief moment of silence.

“I see,” Mando replied stiltedly.

Grogu seemed oblivious to the awkwardness permeating the air between the two adults. The kid studied the closed door in front of them curiously, then patted Boba’s arm insistently while pointing at it.

Before he could lose the rest of his nerve and make a bigger fool of himself, Boba took the helpfully-given cue and pressed the doorbell.

The trio stood in silence for a moment before the pounding of footsteps grew louder. Then the door was flung open and a blur rushed out to slam into the younger Fett.

“Boba!”

Stumbling backwards a few steps before catching himself, Boba grabbed his attacker in a bear hug and spun the two of them around, laughing. “‘Soka!”

Ahsoka grinned up at him as he carefully set her down. “Missed you, bucket-head.”

“Awww, really? I certainly didn’t miss you,” he replied, slinging an arm around her shoulders.

“Rude!” she gasped in mock-outrage. “I’m telling Obi!”

“Hey, hey, hey, look who’s back,” a voice drawled from the doorway. “If it isn’t my baby brother! And I see you’ve brought a friend. I didn’t even know you had friends.”

Boba pulled off his buy’ce and rolled his eyes at Anakin, who smirked at him from where he was lounging with one shoulder against the wooden frame. “That joke got old decades ago. I would ask you to think of a new one, but it’s ok old man. Age comes for all of us someday.”

“Hoho burn!” Ahsoka crowed. “Take that Skyguy!”

Anakin stumbled backwards with a theatrical gasp. “Snips! You’re supposed to be on my side!”

“Yes, yes, but if you could all let them come inside first, please,” Obi-Wan spoke, coming to stand behind Anakin.

“Yes Obi-Wan,” Anakin and Ahsoka groaned in unison before heading back into the house; Anakin scooping up Boba’s duffle on the way and Ahsoka waving her fingers at Grogu as she passed by.

Obi-Wan merely gave them a long-suffering smile. He then turned to Mando and Grogu and his expression softened into something more genuine.

“Su cuy'gar. I see you’ve met Anakin and Ahsoka,” he said warmly, then offered his arm. “I’m Obi-Wan. It’s nice to meet the both of you.”

Mando clasped his forearm then briefly glanced at Boba in a not-quite-subtle cry for help as the Fett came to stand at the other’s side. Taking pity on the overwhelmed mando’ad, Boba cleared his throat.

“Buir, this is Mando,” he said. “And this is his ad, Grogu.”

Grogu chirped excitedly, arms reaching for Obi-Wan. At Mando’s nod, Obi-Wan took the kid into his arms and patiently let Grogu trail his clawed hands over the neatly-trimmed beard as well as play with his fingers.

“Do come in,” said Obi-Wan, inclining his head down the hallway. “Boba can get your things.”

Mando seemed torn for a second between carrying his own luggage and leaving his ad, so Boba waved him off. “I’ve got the bags. Go with O’buir.”

Boba trailed behind the pair as they entered the living room, depositing Mando’s bags at one corner. Obi-Wan sank into one of the armchairs with Grogu on his lap, indulging the child as he showed off the silver knob that he had been playing with since they’d exited the airport.

After taking in the room, Mando awkwardly sat himself on the empty couch beside Obi-Wan. By then Anakin and Ahsoka had claimed the opposite armchair—Anakin slouching in the seat while Ahsoka had perched herself on the armrest—and were staring between Grogu and Mando with undisguised curiosity.

Jango walked into the room with a tray of tea-filled mugs and passed them out to everyone, making sure to offer the mando a metal straw. Mando accepted the two items with quietly surprised thanks.

“Boba mentioned you were a traditionalist,” said Jango with a shrug.

He then wandered over to peer over Obi-Wan’s shoulder and raised an eyebrow. “But Bob’ika, you didn’t think to mention that you’d gotten married and adopted an ad?”

“Buir,” Boba groaned, wishing the ground would open up and swallow him. “Not you too!”

Ahsoka snickered, shoulders shaking with suppressed laughter. Obi-Wan merely hummed, but had a hand covering his mouth politely in the way Boba knew was him trying to hide his smile.

“Yeah, Bob’ika,” Anakin mocked. “You got married, had a kid and didn’t tell us? I told you about mine!”

Boba glared at the traitors. “Do I look like the kind of person to just turn up one day with a riduur and ad?”

“You kinda do, Boba. And look! Your kid’s like a baby version of Master Yoda! Isn’t he, Skyguy?” commented Ahsoka. She scrunched her nose and grinned at the little one, cooing as Grogu smiled gummily back at her.

“Yeah, he really is, Snips,” replied Anakin, cocking his head. “Is he Force-sensitive?” he asked Mando.

“I was told the Jedi could help him control his powers,” Mando answered cautiously.

Obi-Wan glanced down at the child in his lap. “He does feel strong in the Force.”

Jango snorted. “Well then you’ve come to the right place to be introduced.”

He placed a hand on Obi-Wan’s shoulder. “This one’s a Jedi Master”—then nodded at Anakin—“that one’s an ex-Jedi Master”—and tipped his mug at Ahsoka. “And that one there’s a Jedi Knight.”

Mando glanced at the three and then at Boba. “Vor entye. I appreciate your assistance.”

“It’s nothing,” Obi-Wan said as he stood up, carefully handing Grogu back to Mando. “Boba, why don’t you show them the guest room? We’d be happy to host you.”

“I—” Mando looked down at Grogu, who had tucked himself against his chest and was slowly dozing off. “The offer is appreciated, but—” he paused. “There are people after us. After him. I do not wish to place your family in danger.”

“Aliit ori'shya tal'din,” Jango replied calmly. “You are mando’ade, and we stand together. Especially when it comes to ade.”

“Besides,” Anakin spoke. “You have three of the best Jedi under one roof in the most Mandalorian-dense district ever. Any sleemo is gonna get their shebs kicked to next year and back before they can even think of stepping foot in here. Kid’s never gonna get any safer than that.”

“He means two of the best Jedi and one Jedi-retiree,” Ahsoka said with a smirk.

Anakin rolled his eyes. “Ugh, you are never going to let that go, are you Snips?”

“Nope,” she replied, popping the p.

Boba rubbed his temples and sighed, then set his buy’ce on the side table.

“Come on Mando,” he said, grabbing the bags from the corner and heading for the stairs. “You can sleep on it. Kid’s already tuckered out. There’s no need to make any big decisions right now.”

He held his breath as he climbed up. Then shoved down the victorious smile that threatened to creep onto his face when he heard footsteps follow after him.

Heading for the guest bedroom, he elbowed the door open and placed the bags out of the way; Mando trailing in behind him like a lost tooka. Boba then turned to the mandalorian and cleared his throat.

“So, uh, the fresher’s down the hall and I’m in the room opposite this one. You can unpack your things into the drawers and stuff; they’re all empty. And if you need anything, feel free to come get me.”

“Also the door locks, so you can relax and take a nap if you want; none of us will bother you. Someone will knock to bring up something for lunch,” he added. “Any food restrictions?”

“I don’t think so,” Mando replied, audibly overwhelmed even through the vocoder. “Maybe something not spicy for the kid?”

“Don’t worry about it, O’buir knows a Jedi Master who looks to be of the same species so we’ll clear any major dietary concerns with him if we’re not sure,” Boba hastily reassured him, heading for the door. “Get some sleep, Mando, you definitely could use it. Ret'!”

Without waiting for a reply, he closed the door before him. Then heaved a sigh, resting his head against the wood with a soft thud. Ka’ra, he was a kriffing mess! What had gotten into him? He was usually way more slick than that!

And karking hell, O’buir must’ve used some Force osik because there was no other way they could’ve convinced the mando not to bolt like a frightened bantha! He would never have suggested coming if he’d known Anakin and ‘Soka were back.

There was a reason the Coruscant temple hated budgeting missions that sent the two of them out together. They were a disaster and a half on a good day!

Groaning, he thumped his head against the wood once more before finally turning around. And barely managed to stop himself from crashing back into the door while biting back the yell that threatened to escape him.

“Soooo,” Anakin drawled from where he’d been standing right behind Boba, with that same infuriating smirk. “Mando, huh?”

“Yeah, Boba,” Ahsoka echoed with a matching grin from beside Anakin. “Have you been holding out on us?”

Boba scowled at the two of them.

“We are not doing this here,” he groused, and stomped back down to the living room where Jango and Obi-Wan were waiting.

“Buuuuir,” he groaned, beelining towards Obi-Wan to wrap his arms around him and bury his face in the crook of his neck. “Why didn’t you tell me these two were back?”

Obi-Wan patted his back soothingly.

“I thought it would be a nice surprise since you hadn’t seen each other in person for so long,” he replied, the amusement clear in his voice. “How was I to know you were bringing a surprise of your own?”

Jango laughed and pulled Boba out of his hiding place and into his arms.

“Bob’ika, I expected this of Anakin; Manda knows that boy is impulsive,” he said, ignoring the indignant “Hey!” from Anakin. “But you? Did you have to choose this to be rebellious about?” he asked half-jokingly.

Boba huffed and pulled away. “Come on, buir, you know that’s not what happened.”

“Ah, but a buir can hope,” Jango replied, ruffling Boba’s hair. “The first time you bring home a friend we don’t know and he’s a nice traditional boy with an adorable ad? It’s every buir’s dream.”

“So, is he?” asked Ahsoka eagerly.

Boba flushed.

“No,” he admitted. “We actually just met on the flight. Kid decided I was his new best friend and Mando decided to go along with all of it for some reason.”

There was a long pause as everyone stared at him with incredulous and baffled expressions.

“50 credits they get married in three years,” announced Anakin.

“100 for two and a half!” cried Ahsoka.

Boba gaped at them, then turned to his parents and gestured at the pair of mischief-makers helplessly.

Obi-Wan looked at him and turned to Jango with a shrug. “200 for two years.”

“Same,” Jango replied.

The next two days of travel passed similarly to the first.

Jaskier and Yennefer would find moments to converse amongst themselves during the march—exchanging stories of amusing mishaps, conquests, and annoyances—while Geralt and the Princess led the front. On occasion, Cirilla would fall behind to listen in on the conversations, and shyly mention stories of her own which the two adults were more than delighted to listen to.

But mealtimes remained filled with tense silences, excluding the times Geralt would run drills with Cirilla to keep up her muscle memory, the battlefield of their relationships with one another still too fresh to tread without sparking conflict. And truthfully, no one was ready to take the vulnerable first step of attempting to rebuild burnt bridges just yet.

The nights were spent with Jaskier and Yennefer sequestered in the latter's tent, drawing out the Chaos in Jaskier's wounds, the agony of treatment decreasing steadily as less and less Chaos was left behind. And when they were done, they'd wash up and stumble into bed in each other's arms.

Their motley group reached Yspaden in the dead of the following night.

"Why Yspaden of all places?" Jaskier finally asked when they stopped almost a kilometre from the town. Cirilla nearly toppled off Roach in her attempt to dismount, swaying more than standing where she'd landed and struggling to keep her eyes open.

"Because it's close to Blaviken," Geralt answered gruffly, refusing to look up from where he was fiddling with Roach's tack.

It was the first time Jaskier and Geralt had had anything resembling a conversation since they'd left Kaer Morhen.

"Ah..." was all Jaskier had to say to that.

It was a decent choice, tactically speaking.

Everyone knew that the White Wolf had never travelled anywhere close to the site where he'd been crowned the moniker of the Butcher of Blaviken. Humans had very long memories for those sorts of things, and once the word had spread, hostility towards witchers had spread its tendrils from the area it had originated to wrap around those else it could reach.

It also meant that Geralt could not be seen anywhere near the place, lest word spread of his presence and they get chased out with pitchforks and torches. Sadly Jaskier meant that very literally. It was an actual thing he'd experienced multiple times on his travels with Geralt, especially when they'd first started their... business partnership.

He winced at the reminder of the latest song about Geralt he'd debuted. He'd played it for the first time in public right before Firefucker rather ironically got hold of him. Hopefully that meant the song hadn't spread. Especially not in this direction.

Heartbreak was a petty bitch but hindsight had no qualms kicking down the door of denial.

Perhaps it was a good thing that his and Geralt's bridge had already been burnt to cinders with only cursory attempts to sift through the wreckage. At least that meant that he'd only set fire to the ashes with that mess.

"So what's the plan? If tall, dark, and broody over here can't actually enter?" he questioned, shaking his head clear of those thoughts.

"He's not going to," Yennefer replied. "None of us are as a matter of fact. Only you."

Jaskier's head spun so fast to face the sorceress that his neck cracked. Loudly.

"WHAT?!"

"Shhh!" Cirilla shushed him sleepily, then yawned, teeth flashing exactly like her namesake.

"I have a contact in the town who is expecting a courier from me," Yennefer continued as if she hadn't been interrupted. "They have supplies and other materials we need packed and waiting. You will just need to head to the drop-off, collect them, and come right back. Meanwhile Geralt and I will set up camp nearby, and we'll all leave early in the morning. In and out. Not long enough for anyone to notice we were here."

It was, Jaskier realised, the perfect opportunity for him to prove his worth to the group. Exactly as Yennefer had laid out in front of Geralt at Kaer Morhen. And that, more than anything else, made up his mind.

"I'll do it," he replied seriously, now wide-awake, the thrum of adrenaline beginning to seep into his veins.

Yennefer shot him a brief grin, fierce and proud, then pressed something into his gloved hand. "Take this. It'll serve as proof of authenticity. My contact should be one of the townsfolk living at the edges of town. You'll recognise them by the roses outside their house and embossed on their door."

Jaskier looked down. A silver ring nestled in the leather palm of his glove, gleaming in the cloudless moonlit night. He turned it over and revealed an elegant coat of arms pressed into the metal: a hind, flanked by sprigs of lilacs.

He slipped it onto the chain around his neck without a word. While Yennefer's ring most probably had the ability to magically resize itself to fit its wearer, it was not like he could take off his glove to put it on anyway. Jaskier cleared his throat and gave the mage a faint smile.

"I'll be off then," he said, pulling his gifted cloak more securely over his shoulders and throwing the hood up.

Thanks to Yennefer's aesthetic, it was a deep black in colour, drawing all light into its depths. If he stood perfectly still in the shadows, there was no doubt that he'd be overlooked without a second thought.

Yennefer nodded, and then playfully shoved him to set him off down the path to Yspaden. He laughed, and stumbled away, sticking out his tongue at her as he left.

"Jaskier," a gravelly voice called after him.

He froze. Then turned back to face Geralt. "Yes?" he inquired politely.

The witcher looked at him, face carefully blank. "Stay safe."

Jaskier had no idea what to say to such a sentiment, which had never been expressed so blatantly before. Definitely not in explicit words at least. And absolutely not after he'd been blamed for everything wrong in Geralt's life, called a shit-shoveller, and only been brought back for what little use he could be to the other. 

So he merely nodded and turned back around, eager to put as much distance between him and the awkwardness as possible. He certainly did not envy Yennefer for being stuck behind.

The trip to Yspaden, a walk alone in the dark, was nerve-wracking but uneventful.

Melitele must have taken pity on him, for there was no need to carry a torch to see where he was going. Not only would that have stood out, but he had the feeling that while a campfire with Yennefer nearby did not set him off, having to carry a lit torch by himself over a long distance would not be as kind to his nerves. And he did not want to test his reaction to that in front of people who could ask too many questions.

So on he trudged with only the road and moonlight to guide him, staying close to the shadows offered by the trees lining one side and irregularly checking the open path ahead and behind him for any signs of life.

It was easy enough to slip into town unnoticed. And skulking through the shadows for a few minutes soon revealed the house where he would find Yennefer's contact. Rose bushes with red, white, and pink roses, barely in bud, lined the garden. Even from a distance, the beautiful carvings of roses along the wooden front door made it clear that this was the place he was searching for.

But he could hardly just walk right up to the front door and knock. The sound would surely raise any nosy neighbours. And a midnight visit from a stranger who could not be found in the morning? Why, the story would be all over town within an hour!

Jaskier circled the house, looking for a less conspicuous entrance. And found it soon enough. At the back of the house, steeped in shadow, away from prying eyes and ears, a lone lit candle stood sentinel at a windowsill.

Even as Jaskier steadied his breathing, his pulse picked up. It was showtime. Then with the barest glance to check if the coast was still clear, he hastened towards the marker.

Safely soaked in the shadow of the house, Jaskier bent down to grope around for a small handful of gravel. Then with the unerring accuracy he'd honed over the years as a performer, flicked a small pebble at the windowsill. A soft crack as the stone hit wood and glass echoed. Loud enough for people inside to hear, but soft enough to be unnoticed by passersby.

He counted down the seconds, and then flicked another. The window slid open.

"Token," a light feminine voice demanded.

Jaskier hastily pulled Yennefer's ring off the chain, and held it out towards the window. A dainty hand reached back and snatched it from his gloved palm.

For a few moments, there was nothing more than the silence that filled the night. Then the window slid open fully to reveal a beautiful woman, in her late 20s, if Jaskier was estimating correctly.

She dropped the ring back into Jaskier's fumbling hand, then bent down to heave a large travelling bag out of the windowsill and into Jaskier's arms. A heavy rucksack quickly followed.

"That's all," she said. "Give Lady Yennefer my regards."

"I most assuredly will, my beautiful lady, and wish you—"

The window slid shut in his face and the candle winked out.

"—a most pleasant night," Jaskier awkwardly finished to empty air.

Then sighed, slung the rucksack over his shoulders, wrestled the hefty travelling bag into his arms, and set back off to rejoin the group.

He was a few hundred metres away from where he'd left Yennefer and the others when a figure abruptly melted out of the shadows in front of him. Jaskier had barely managed to stifle a yell, jerking backwards and almost toppling over in his hurry to back away, when the shape resolved itself into a familiar bulk.

"Melitele's tits, Geralt!" Jaskier swore, slumping in relief. "You scared the shit out of me."

The witcher huffed, the sound what Jaskier had once assumed to be a noise of fond amusement, then stole the travelling bag right out of Jaskier's aching arms.

"Let me," was all he said, turning around and disappearing back into the treeline.

What the actual—?

Jaskier realised he was getting left behind, swore again, then hurried after the witcher. Just like the old times.

It took them quarter of an hour to make it to the clearing where Yennefer was waiting, allowances made for Jaskier's human eyesight and endurance.

"My dearest, darling witch, what the everloving fuck are in these bags?" Jaskier panted, stumbling to a stop near her. "Rocks? Gold bars?"

Another soft huff came from beside him before Geralt swept past them into Yennefer's tent and reappeared without the bag he'd lifted off Jaskier. He then vanished into the far more utilitarian tent he shared with Ciri.

Yennefer snorted, then wrapped her hand around Jaskier's forearm and led him inside their own. "Books, bardling, and more provisions."

Jaskier let the rucksack slide off his shoulders and gently placed it on the floor near the table. Across it, alchemical supplies were scattered around like in the laboratory of Kaer Morhen when the mage worked her magic, and the two tins of paste sat closed.

"It was time to remake the balms," said Yennefer, gaze following Jaskier's. "I altered the formula slightly to be more potent without saturating it in Chaos."

Taking the hint, Jaskier pulled off his gloves and laid his hands out on the table.

They'd managed to finetune this nightly ritual almost perfectly, and it took them barely an hour to be done with all the ugly parts of it and get ready for bed. Jaskier sat on the chair with his eyes closed, bandaged fingers rubbing the delightful fabric of his latest Yennefer-procured clothing in a self-soothing gesture he'd adopted over the last few days, as the agony in his hands slowly drained out.

"You never did tell me," he murmured, "just how all of this is possible."

"I won't bore you with the theory of it, for it would take weeks and an in-depth understanding of Chaos to explain," Yennefer answered just as quietly as she sat on the table beside him, "but the long and short of it is that the tent itself is heavily warded to isolate whatever Chaos is used within it to contain and conceal any magical signatures and noise. I travelled a lot, after leaving my posting at Aerdin, and it's easier sometimes to have a portable set-up that can't be tracked whenever I venture to more dangerous or exotic locations."

"And that's why Geralt doesn't know of all of... this," Jaskier concluded, waving a bandaged hand.

Yennefer idly tugged on a lock of his hair. "Yes. This isn't my most advanced set-up," she said absently. "I do have a version with a portable laboratory as well, but this one is far less large and draining."

"Did you design this whole thing yourself?" he asked.

The mage remained silent for long moments.

"No," she finally answered. "There was someone else that I had worked on this with. A joint project when I was still a trainee at Aretuza. We'd conceptualised a lot of the theory together."

Jaskier could guess at what was being left unsaid. So he simply breathed out an over-the-top sigh and leaned into her.

"Well, time for bed, my lovely wife? I fear my weary bones will never recover if I don't catch some beauty sleep before we get dragged around the Continent again."

Yennefer laughed softly and tweaked his nose. "What beauty sleep?" she teased. "I haven’t seen any drastic change for that to have worked at any point."

Jaskier squawked like a bird with ruffled feathers. "You take that back!" he demanded, jabbing her in the side.

The sorceress merely snickered at him and hopped off the table to evade his pointy elbows. Jaskier huffed and slumped back in his chair, pouting. He watched as she strode over to the rucksack he'd carried, and pulled out a large wooden box. Turning around, the mage grinned cheekily at his curious bird-like head tilt, violet eyes sparkling.

"I was thinking we could try some of these before we head to bed, husband dearest," she said, depositing the intricately carved box onto the cleared table.

Jaskier barely had time to admire the woodwork before the lid was flipped open and the cloth covering the contents was pulled away.

"Chruściki!" he exclaimed, lighting up at the whole pile in front of them.

A piece was swiped from under his nose, a satisfied smirk playing at Yennefer's lips even as she took delicate bites out of the honey-drizzled pastry. Jaskier looked at the pile, then at his bandaged fingers with their dainty tied-off bows, then widened his eyes and gave Yennefer the most pitiful stare he could manage.

 She looked him in the eye, finished her piece, reached for another, and chomped down on half of it.

Jaskier turned his gaze back to the mouth-watering treats, so close yet so far out of reach, and despaired.

A breathy laugh brushed past his ear, leaving tingles in its wake. Then the remaining half of the chruściki appeared near his mouth. Jaskier side-eyed Yennefer, who simply raised an eyebrow at him and waved the pastry enticingly in front of him. Cautiously, Jaskier opened his mouth and slowly leaned in, certain that she was only mocking him and would pull it away at the last second.

Yennefer rolled her eyes and shoved the pastry into his mouth. And snickered at the way he spluttered around his stuffed mouth in shock. Jaskier gave up trying to understand the infuriating woman and chewed on the pastry, a delighted hum escaping him at the wonderful taste.

"You have a little..." the mage said, gesturing at the corner of her mouth.

He could feel the little globule of honey smeared across his cheek where she'd indicated, but shrugged and continued enjoying the treat. He could deal with it later, it wasn't like he could do anything about it with the bandages wrapped around his hands anyway.

The sorceress sighed fondly and used her own thumb to wipe it off. Then brought the digit up to her mouth to suck it clean.

Jaskier's breath caught in his throat. The brief flash of her teeth and the way her lips glistened in the soft orange lighting of the braziers in the tent set molten heat running through his veins.

He wanted to press his mouth against her own, steal the traces of the sweet honey from her tongue, feel the dangerous press of her teeth against his skin. He wanted nothing more than to be devoured with the same care and lack of she'd consumed her pick of the lot with. To throw himself on the pyre of her being and dissolve into ash for her to breathe in and settle within her veins.

He wanted, he wanted, he wanted.

"Do you want one more?" Yennefer asked, hand hovering over the box before finally deciding on a piece.

Jaskier swallowed harshly, the sweetness of the pastry turning sickeningly cloying in his mouth with realisation. He truly never learnt. He'd already set himself up for his next grand heartbreak.

"No," he replied cheerily, "I'm afraid I no longer can stuff myself with many of these as I used to in one sitting. And I'd rather save them for the journey since we'll have precious little treats. I'm sure Cirilla would greatly enjoy having some tomorrow."

"That's for certain," Yennefer said and then shrugged. "More for me now then."

Jaskier rose and stretched, groaning in relief as his joints cracked satisfyingly. "I'm going to bed first, do join me when you're finished, my darling wife."

Yennefer hummed, then covered the remaining pastries with the cloth and set the box closed. As Jaskier slid into the plush bed and got comfortable, she wiped her hands clean on a damp cloth and then crawled in after him. They lay curled on their sides beneath the blankets facing each other, close enough to share breath.

With the wave of Yennefer's hand, the lights dimmed to a faint glow, darkness settling over them.

"Good night, my beloved wife."

"Good night, my darling husband."

As promised, before the sun had even begun to breach the horizon, they were back on the road.

Much of the trek was spent in silence, everyone feeling the lack of sleep and the toll of the previous day's march. All except Geralt, who was his usual grumpy, grouchy, silent self.

So while lunch remained as quiet as usual, at least this time it was more of the comfortable silence of everyone commiserating in their misery together, rather than the tense silence before a battle. When everything was packed up and they were ready to set off again, Yennefer retrieved the wooden box from the night before.

"Ciri," she called out.

The girl looked up glumly from where she was dragging her feet to get back on Roach. "Yes, Lady Yennefer?"

"Jaskier and I thought," she hesitated for the smallest fraction of a second, "that you might like to share some of this with us before we start off again."

Cirilla seemed to perk up at that. "Share what?" she asked with restrained curiosity.

Yennefer opened the box and pulled back the cloth.

"Chruściki!" the girl cried out gleefully, then bounded over to stop in front of the box. "Really, Lady Yennefer?! Can I—" she broke off, glancing back at Geralt.

Who was staring at them all, eyebrows pinched and nostrils flaring ever so slightly. Yennefer's back stiffened, but she said nothing. A flare of anger sparked in Jaskier, and he pressed himself against the mage, standing shoulder to shoulder with her.

"I don't see why not, right, Geralt?" he said with faux casualness.

Withdrawing a clean handkerchief, the same cream and lavender one Yennefer had been sneaking into his pocket as a joke ever since that night in Kaer Morhen, he plucked a piece off the pile and broke it in half. Then popped one half into his mouth and chewed loudly. And pointedly. Before offering the other to Yennefer, whose lips quirked into a faint smile as she took the remaining half and finished it in a few dainty bites.

"The offer extends to you too, Scowly," Jaskier continued, staring him dead in the eye even as he picked up another to share with Yennefer. "I know you like to pretend to be a stone-cold witcher, untempted by paltry human things like sweet treats, but I promise that sharing a pastry with your Child Surprise will not destroy your reputation with the masses."

'I might have done that all by myself,' he thought wryly.

Jaskier held out one in his handkerchief and waved it at Geralt, as he had done many times Before, and held his breath.

Geralt scowled at him for a moment longer, really living up to Jaskier’s nickname for him, then resignedly trudged over to accept the chruściki. He broke it in half and nibbled on it, offering the other half to his delighted Child Surprise.

Jaskier raised a patronising eyebrow at him. ‘See? Not poisoned, or otherwise altered.’

Cirilla's clear pleasure at getting to eat the truly magnificent creation was more than enough to make Jaskier's day. Yennefer's soft look that she quickly hid told him it had made hers too. The poor girl probably had few pleasures like this since the fall of Cintra, and he was just glad she could experience moments of joy among all the cruelty she'd been through lately.

She looked longingly at the rest, and at Yennefer's nod, eagerly picked another. Then brought it up to her mouth before hesitating. With great care, she broke the pastry in half.

"Have some, Geralt," she said, lifting one half towards him with a smile.

Geralt brought up a hand and started, "Ciri, it's—"

The girl's face dropped ever so slightly. Jaskier and Yennefer bored twin glares through Geralt's skull, just daring him to not get the message.

"—very nice of you. Thank you," the witcher abruptly changed tracks, accepting the offered half.

Handing Cirilla one last piece for the road, Yennefer packed up the box and stowed it away at the top of Jaskier's rucksack. The contents of the ones he'd brought back the night before had already been distributed amongst the rest of the bags they carried earlier that morning, save for the majority of the books which Yennefer kept within the tent's magical storage. 

And with that, they were back on the path.

Jaskier wished he could say that things changed for the better afterwards, but frankly it was the same old.

Silent breakfast, march, awkward lunch, march, equally silent and awkward dinner, vanish into tents, work, sleep, wake, repeat.

It was painfully obvious that the only thing holding together the adults’ fragile truce was Cirilla’s presence and well-being. If not for the girl flitting between them for the various things they could provide—be it education, entertainment, or a just familiar figure to lean on—well, Jaskier had the feeling that none of them would be there together in the first place.

Except maybe him being with Yen, but that was only the mage had deigned to keep him close ever since the whole Kaer Morhen mess for some reason.

The only real changes were one: their path took an abrupt veer into the monster-infested, people-avoiding heart of Redania. And two: Jaskier's contributions to Yennefer's reading and experimenting at night became more and more useful, as less and less of Firefucker's Chaos lingered in his hand.

Soon enough, he could bend his fingers without too much stiffness and pain and reasonably hold things without it becoming a major problem, which according to Yennefer, boded well for the future healing she'd need to do to get his hands back in shape. And had promptly put him to work in the evenings after dinner: helping her stir mixtures, retrieving ingredients or items as and when needed, dictating instructions, measuring out and pouring liquids, reading tomes...

Which was why he was currently lounging abed and carefully flipping through one such book, hair wet from his bath and fingers freshly bandaged, while his taskmaster of a wife attended to some magical mixture or another boiling away in the section of the tent she'd reappropriated to be a makeshift laboratory.

"Nothing," he announced glumly, letting the book fall shut. "Just the same myths and deductions and rubbish being repeated over and over."

"Can't say I expected any better," Yennefer sighed, switching off the flame. "Not much is available about Elder Blood. And whatever legitimate information is there has been snatched up and hoarded by the Brotherhoods, if not tucked away in the hands of private collectors who'd rather see their collections burn than leave their sight."

She covered the mixture and wandered over to the bed, tossing the book onto the bedside table to join the others and crawling in beside Jaskier. With the wave of her hand, the braziers dimmed to a faint glow, and the two of them made themselves comfortable, tangled up in one another.

"What's the thingy you're working on, then?" Jaskier asked around a yawn.

There was a long moment of silence.

"It's... for something I have a suspicion about," Yennefer finally answered, tone carefully even. "I've... been looking over things for a while and... this... is something that would prove it definitely."

Jaskier wiggled slightly to face her. "Is it... dangerous?" he asked delicately.

Yennefer exhaled, fiddling with one of the drawstrings on his shirt absently.

"Not immediately, no," she replied quietly, seeming to Jaskier—well, for the lack of a better word—downcast. "And not to Ciri or Geralt either."

"But maybe for you," Jaskier filled in what was being left unsaid. "Yennefer, what—"

"Not now, Jaskier," she breathed out. Then shook her head as if to clear it. "Let's talk about something else."

"Alright," he murmured, shifting closer to her and snagging his fingers in hers. Then grinned at her. "Let's talk about me then! What weird and wonderful fact about the most famous bard on the Continent would you like to know today?"

Yennefer barked a laugh. "Humble much, bardling?" she teased.

"One must take pride in their work after all, my darling wife," he snarked back.

She hummed, amused and unconvinced. "Well in that case. Which of all your performances was your favourite to do?"

"Oooh, asking the tough questions already." Jaskier hummed as he thought it over.

"If I had to pick," he began slowly, "it wouldn't be an actual performance performance."

"Oh?" Jaskier's response had clearly perked Yennefer's interest. "Which one would it be then?"

"There was this impromptu thing some of us did when we went back to the Academy years ago—It's... it's hard to explain what made it so different from all the other stuff I've done. Just—It was all of it. You'd have to be there to understand why it was so special."

Yennefer pulled at a lock of his hair. "Good thing I'm a sorceress then, no? We can just take a walk through your memories and you can show me."

"Wait, you can do that?" Jaskier asked, voice and eyebrows shooting up.

"There's a lot you don't know that I can do, husband," Yennefer replied mysteriously.

Jaskier laughed. "Of course there is. Sure, why not? What do we need to do?"

"Close your eyes."

Jaskier easily let them fall shut. In the silence of the tent, he caught the slightest sound of a quick inhale. Then he felt the mattress shift as Yennefer drew herself level and closer to him. A hand came to rest softly against the side of his face: two fingers pressing against his temple while the palm curved against his cheek.

"Think about where you'd like the memory to start," the mage murmured. "I'll handle the rest."

Jaskier cast his memory back to that night: the rush of sneaking out of their apartments like children, smuggling blankets, food and drink, cloaks thrown over their heads. And abruptly found himself there, watching it play out through his eyes.

"Melitele's tits!" he sputtered, feeling strangely disembodied. Like he was somehow solidly himself, watching all of this play out in front of him like a spectator, yet still caged in a body that was his but moved and felt without his input.

His body was walking itself down a road as Pris and Val (the fucker) argued in loud whispers amongst themselves ahead of him. A soft but bright laugh sounded beside him and he registered the sensation of a hand resting on his (but not his) forearm, extended gallantly towards the girl clinging to him. A large bright blue eye peaked out at him from blonde curls, a grin curling her pink lips.

"Poppet," Jaskier breathed out. His eyes burned. "My darling Poppet."

She spoke—something or another that Jaskier could not hear through the buzzing that filled his ears—and his body (the one he did not control, or rather, once had) shook with stifled laughter.

"Who is she?" Yennefer asked quietly from beside him.

Jaskier swallowed the lump that had risen in his (incorporeal) throat. "Essi," he managed to choke out after a long moment of just drinking the sight of her in. "Her name is—was—Essi Daven. She went by Little Eye."

Yennefer's hand wrapped around his, lacing their fingers together. "Who is she to you?" she asked gently.

"Where to even begin?" he laughed, the sound watery.

"Poppet was just starting off her final year at the Academy when I first met her, during one of my stints as a lecturer. It was maybe under a decade since I had known Geralt. We got on like fire. Took her under my wing, and soon Pris and Val wanted to know about her too. They would come by more and more often and we all just clicked. She was sort of a younger sister and sort of our child."

He hastily dashed away the tears that started to fall.

"She was always so self-possessed. But you know how it is when it's your final exams that determine whether you've successfully made it. Officially it would be a formal recital at the end of the year. Unofficially it would be a court performance the professors would schedule for us in groups. We all had the worst case of nerves during ours. She did too. So we—Pris, Val, and I—all made a whole production of things to get her to relax. We packed up a picnic supper, snuck into her room and stole her away like dashing rouges from songs, and well—you'll see in a bit."

"Where are we going, Dandelion?" Essi asked, barely hiding a yawn.

"Almost there, Poppet," came Jaskier's voice. "Just a mile or so more."

"This better be worth dragging me out of bed for," she grumbled, leaning her weight on him.

"Oh it very much is, darling," Pris called back.

The group abruptly veered off the road and into the woods, Val handing out torches to better light the way. They trampled through the undergrowth, following the notches they'd made to find the way back, then in the blink of an eye, they found themselves on the other side. A grassy field stretched out in front of them, lit brightly by moonlight. In another blink, the group of them were approaching the ruins that remained.

"Oh wow..." Essi breathed out. "How did you all find this place?"

"You have Jas to thank for that," said Pris, elbowing Jaskier's side.

"He got lost," snorted Val.

"Hey!"

"It's beautiful, Dandelion!" said their darling youngest.

And it was. The elven architecture favoured high arches and open space, allowing nature to easily claim back the abandoned structure. Flowering vines in lovely pastels and gleaming jewel tones curled around the crumbling stone, forcing their way in through broken windows and walls, draping them in a blanket of gorgeous foliage. Soft moss carpeted the floor, and more plants made themselves home in whatever crevices they could find.

The group meandered through the empty hallways, pausing occasionally for Essi to admire the reclaimed rooms and flora that lovingly decorated the damaged spaces. With Jaskier's subtle nudges to direct their path, they soon stumbled onto the crowning jewel of the place—the real thing that they'd been waiting to surprise Essi with.

"Sweet Melitele's tits!" gasped Little Eye as they entered.

"Essi!!" came three outraged voices, and one incorporeal one. Yennefer stifled a laugh.

"Oh shut it, you all," replied Essi with a roll of her eyes. "Especially you, Dandelion, stop gaping like that. Unless you plan on catching flies. Not that you've at all been particular about what you put in your mouth and where you do it."

Both versions of the bards' mouths snapped shut from the offended gasps they were expressing. Meanwhile, Pris and Val were not even attempting to hide their laughter. Neither was Yennefer now; traitors the whole lot of them.

"Ohhh, I like her, bardling," the sorceress snickered.

"Hmph!" said bardling sniffed haughtily. "Good for you then. Because if you didn't, wife mine, we'd be getting a divorce."

"Hah. As if you could escape me that easily," Yennefer murmured into his ear, a smile audible in her voice.

The duo watched through Jaskier's eyes as Essi drank in the surroundings from where they all stood at the entrance of a small but grand chamber.

It boasted the same high arches and ceilings of the rest. But the real beauty of it, was that the walls were primarily made of glass. And somehow, this particular room had been spared from the significant amount of weathering experienced by the rest of the structure—save for its now missing ceiling. Most of the glass remained intact—with the exception of the odd, shattered holes where stubborn vines had burst through—and not even the layer of grime on it stopped the beams of moonlight above from filtering through, washing the space alight with a silvery glow.

Additionally, instead of the level or raised floors seen earlier during their wanderings, this chamber's floor resembled a shallow basin: a few stone steps were carved into the perimeter of the room, which descended to a flat bottom. Scattered around the space were a few stone benches, most of them worn and crumbling in pieces—a stark contrast to the remarkable well-preservedness of the room's architecture itself.

"Come on, darling," said Pris. She grabbed Essi's hand and pulled her into the room. "Let's set up the picnic!"

Val and Jaskier's body followed them, and the group set up their feast in the open centre of the room. Laughing and teasing, they ate and made merry, passing around a skin of wine or two as well. From within, Jaskier drank in the sight of them all happy together. Yennefer watched quietly beside him.

Not long after they'd finished the food and brushed away the crumbs, Val rose to his feet and spoke. "And now, sweet Essi, for the final part of your gift!"

"Wait, there's more?" she gasped, a hand rising to her mouth. "This is already so much! You didn't have to!"

"Ah, but we wanted to, Poppet," Jaskier said with a wink. "Come on. Up, up!"

They were all on their feet, and soon had everything packed into the baskets and placed away on one of the benches at the side.

"Well, what is it?" Essi asked, bouncing on her toes.

Val smirked.

"Check this out," he said. Then threw his head back, and belted out a sonorous note. "Aaaaaaaaa..."

The sound bounced around the room, the musical echo building greater and higher the longer he held it. Its resonance seeped through their skin, setting nerves alight and tingling goosebumps racing across their bodies. Then it lingered in the air, trailing gently off as delicately as freshly falling snow as he brought the note to an end.

A reverent silence hung in the air.

"Valdo..." breathed Essi, blinking back tears. "That was..."

"It is, isn't it?" Pris whispered. Her eyes were bright with emotion. "Better than any music hall."

"We thought," added Jaskier, voice equally hushed, "that it would be the perfect place to sing that song we've been piecing together from the library."

"Yes," said Little Eye, a bright smile spreading across her face. "Sweet Melitele, yes!"

The four of them stood in a circle in the centre of the space, the silvery moonlight streaming in from the collapsed ceiling and the damaged high windows serving as a spotlight, lighting the group in an ethereal glow. Pris raised a hand and they began to hum, their voices seeping into the open space and filling it. Then Essi's high, clear soprano rose into the air.

"May it be, an evening star," she sang sweetly. "Shines bright upon you."

"May it be, when darkness falls," sang Pris in alto. "Your heart will be true."

"You walk a lonely road," came Val's tenor.

"Oh how far you are from home," Jaskier finished.

Their voices twined in chorus:

"Mornië utúlië. Believe and you will find your way. Mornië alantië. A promise lives within you now."

"May it be, the shadow's call," Jaskier sang. "Will fly away."

"May it be, you journey on," sang Val. "To light the day."

"When the night is overcome," Pris followed.

"You may rise to find the sun," finished Essi.

They once more began in chorus, but one by one, their voices dropped back into humming that faded away.

"Mornië utúlië. Believe and you will find your way. Mornië alantië. A promise lives within you now."

"A promise lives within you now," Essi's voice hung in the air as she finished the last line, alone.

Each bard's face was wet, the glittering trails that had spilled down their cheeks gleaming in the light of the moon. Even Jaskier, the one watching the memory, had shed tears as the emotion of the song swelled, even more heart-wrenching now with the knowledge that the happiness had passed.

"Fuck..." Yennefer choked out, her voice throaty and hoarse. She dashed her free hand across her eyes. "Fuck, Jaskier..."

He blinked, and they were pulled out of the memory. The darkness of the tent and the dim glow of the braziers resolved themselves. The pressure of Yennefer's hand along his face lifted as it slipped down to tangle in his shirt.

"I can see why that would be your most dear performance," she said, voice rough. "It truly was exquisite."

Jaskier's lips twitched into a feeble smile. He cleared his throat harshly. "It was."

Yennefer shifted, and Jaskier drew closer to her as they tangled themselves up in one another, his face pressed to her throat, lilacs and gooseberries engulfing him. Slender fingers stroked through his hair.

"She did so well at that performance," the words spilled out of his mouth, faster than he could catch them. "She was amazing. Val, Pris, and I snuck in to watch her. She blew everyone out of the water. Even got an offer for a betrothal performance not long after."

"Pris and Val couldn't make it for that one, they had their own commitments. But I broke off from travelling with Geralt around then and trailed along the coast. Snagged a spot at the banquet she performed at. They were all eating out of the palm of her hand, as they should've. We then wandered the stretch for a while, performing together and simply spending time with one another. We even met a mermaid."

Yennefer's hand briefly paused. "A mermaid?"

"Mhm. Her name was Sh'eenaz. And Yen, she sang so wonderfully. It was practically a dream come true for Essi and I, that we'd get to sing with someone so remarkable!"

"Let me guess," the mage said wryly, "you both fell for each other?"

A laugh was startled out of Jaskier. "Ah, it would make for a lovely story, wouldn't it? A land-locked bard falling for a beautiful sea-dwelling singer." He sighed dramatically. "But alas, I was not to be the bard in that tale. Sh'eenaz's eyes were only for Essi while we were there."

"A woman of good taste," she said approvingly.

"Hey!"

Yennefer patted him condescendingly. "Go on."

Jaskier huffed. Then fell silent.

"We had to split ways not long after," he finally continued, subdued. "Not much coin to split between two bards, and it was hardly beneficial for her to constantly be seen with more established ones. We wrote, all of us, but rarely saw each other in person. But four years later—"

His voice broke.

Yennefer stayed quiet, only tightening her hold on him. Jaskier cleared his throat, even as wet heat spilled over closed lids.

"The pox, in Vizima," was all he managed to say, before his body began to tremble violently. "Yen, she died in my arms. And then they tossed her out with the others. They were going to burn her with the rest! I couldn't—!"

He sucked in huge, shuddering breaths as he forced his body to still.

"So I pulled her out. Carried her out of the city. Found a beautiful clearing in the forest. And dug her grave with my hands. Buried her there with her lute and this lovely blue pearl I found for her during that trip to the coast."

"It matched her stunning eyes," he managed to grit out through his teeth. "My Poppet's blue, blue eyes."

The last words were ripped out from his throat.

Jaskier shattered then, and wailed long and loud, a wounded sound that did little to express the terrible agony that consumed him. Yennefer held the smashed pieces of a broken man together as he screamed and sobbed, the festering in his heart bursting forth to finally drain away, at this decade-later reveal of a terrible truth never before told.

If in the outpouring of grief that filled the tent, more than one pair of eyes shed tears, nobody else was there to notice.

Hours passed, before the last of the shaking stopped and there were no more tears to shed. Jaskier felt painfully wrung out, like a towel violently twisted to squeeze as much water out of it as possible. He lay limp in Yennefer's arms, a sort of peace settling over him, the calm of the settled wreckage in the immediate aftermath of a hurricane.

"I had asked him," he would later whisper into the crook of her neck, voice ragged, "to come to the coast with me. On that mountain."

There would be nothing the sorceress could say.

Two days later, it was Cirilla who ended up inadvertently bringing the issue of what Yennefer was working on to a head.

"We're on the way to Rinde, aren't we?" she asked Geralt from her perch on Roach, voice carrying in the wind. "I've been keeping track like you showed me to, and my guess is we're heading to Rinde."

Behind them, Jaskier came to an abrupt halt.

Geralt hummed in agreement, a faint proud smile on his face. "Yes. Good job, Ciri."

A dull whine began to build in Jaskier's ears, the surroundings beginning to darken and swim as he abruptly found no air making it into his lungs even as his breaths began to come faster. The shrill noise only grew louder as his pulse picked up.

"But why Rinde?" Cirilla pressed, the girl's voice coming from far away.

The shatter of clay on the ground. A bulge rising in his throat. The barest wheeze of sound making it past bloodied lips.

Waking in a foreign bed. A body slamming him into a wall. The blade digging into his neck and the threat to his privates.

A snarled demand. "Make your wish!"

"The Djinn! The Child Surprise! All of it! If life could give me one blessing—"

"Jaskier, Jaskier." The pressure of a hand shaking his shoulder dragged him out of the memories with a gasp.

The waking world swum back into view, a blur of colour. Jaskier closed his eyes and forced himself to breathe in slowly and deeply. The high-pitched sound gradually faded as his breathing and pulse steadied, and he blinked to refocus his vision. Violet eyes greeted him.

He flinched backwards instinctively.

Yennefer dropped her hand from his shoulder like she'd been burned, a flash of hurt crossing her face before it was quickly tucked away. She spun sharply to her horse waiting a few paces ahead, and made to go towards it.

Jaskier's gloved hand shot out without thinking. He grasped the tips of the mage's fingers desperately, holding on tight, but the grip still insecure enough to be broken free of easily.

Yennefer made no move to do so, poised as perfectly as a carved marble statue.

He stepped closer, then rested his head on her shoulder. A hot, shuddering sigh escaped him.

"No, Yen—It was just... memories," he breathed out into the space between their bodies, an explanation as much as a reminder to himself that they were just that.

The line of the sorceress' shoulders relaxed. Then tensed in realisation as she put together the pieces to form the picture of what had prompted that particular reaction. They stood, frozen in tableau.

"I would still do it again," Yennefer finally said, voice measuredly casual as she spoke of their first true interaction.

Jaskier laughed, tension draining out of him. "I would expect no less of you, my darling wicked witch."

She turned around, lacing her fingers with his, her other hand shifting to rest on the curve of his waist, thumb brushing against his ribs. Jaskier's free hand automatically grasped the fabric of her skirt, as if fearful of her leaving, still.

"But Jaskier," said Yennefer, those blazing eyes holding his. "Know this for certain, from now on. You are safe with me. I will not hurt you."

Jaskier's mouth pulled into a smile.

"No one can promise zero hurt in any relationship, wife mine," he said softly, squeezing their joined hands. "But I am certain you will do your best. And I promise you the same."

"Besides," he continued cheerfully, "some types of hurts are plenty of fun."

He waggled his eyebrows at her with a sleazy grin and felt his stomach flop with delight at the fondly exasperated eyeroll and smack to his side he received in turn.

"Jaaaaaskierrrrr!! Laaaady Yenneferrrrr!! Are you comingggg?!" Cirilla hollered from a distance.

The two of them turned to face the source of the racket. Geralt and his Child Surprise were waiting about a hundred metres ahead: the witcher standing facing them—a gloved hand still tangled in Roach's reins—while Cirilla had twisted herself around in her seat to yell at them, cupped hands hovering at her chest from when she'd raised them to help her yell across.

"We're coming!" Yennefer shouted back.

She let her hand fall from Jaskier's side and pulled him over to her patient mount by their interlocked fingers. When she let go to climb on, Jaskier felt a deep pang of loss, his hand abruptly growing cold. With the click of her tongue, the horse began to plod forward.

Jaskier kept pace beside them, eyes fixed on Roach. Then something dropped to hang beside him, right at the edge of his peripheral vision. He tilted his head to get a better view of it.

Yennefer's free hand was dangling by her side between them, the other holding the reins and resting on the horse's neck.

Warmth surged through him, lighting him up with tingling joy and drawing a smile out of him. Drawing closer, he hooked his fingers with hers, their joined hands mostly concealed by her skirts.

Above him, the corners of Yennefer's mouth tipped up in subtle pleasure.

Jaskier's breath caught in his throat. Discreetly clearing it, he turned back to the front, the glee of getting to hold hands like children buoying him.

Cirilla was staring at them, that same strange look on her face, while Geralt's expression was inscrutable, his mouth pressed into a line.

Once again, a dull sense of loss panged in his chest. But this one was easier to feel and then slowly release.

He'd had well over a year to mourn the idea of their friendship, and the thought that at one point, he'd been able to decipher the miniscule fluctuations of Geralt's expressions. And between that time and now, he'd realised that perhaps he had never been able to read them properly.

So there was no real difference, truly. Only that now, he didn't quite find himself compelled to try.

"So, why exactly are we heading to Rinde, of all the wretched places to pick?" Jaskier asked, as the two of them settled down for the night.

There was the barest hint of a pause before Yennefer replied.

"It was noted that none of us have passed through the town since our last rather... chaotic... interactions within it."

Jaskier snorted. "So basically we're all personae non gratae there and hence would be assumed to avoid it as Geralt still avoids Blaviken."

This time, the pause was longer.

"Yes."

Jaskier shifted to look her in the eye.

"Don't treat me as obtuse, Yennefer," he said quietly. "There's something more, isn't there. I've been thinking about it ever since Cirilla brought this whole thing up. Something that never quite made sense to me about the way things ended between Geralt and I on that fucking mountain."

The mage's eyes glittered in the light of the braziers. Her face was blank and expressionless.

"Dammit, Jaskier. The djinn, the Child Surprise, all of it," Jaskier murmured slowly. "If life could give me one blessing, it would be to take you off my hands."

The words hung in the air. Then Yennefer's mask cracked—barely leashed fury forcing its way out to the surface.

"He said that to you?" she asked softly, deadly cold. Ice that threatened to blister and burn from the other end of the spectrum.

"With a few more words in between, but yes," Jaskier admitted. "Yet, it doesn't fully add up. Firstly, it had been about a decade between those events and the mountain. He's had plenty of time to make those particular grievances known by then."

"And mind you," he continued, gathering steam, "I wasn't the one stupid enough to call for the Law of Surprise, especially after just witnessing Destiny play out through it. That was all him! And he spent years running away from that responsibility, content to shove his head in the sand, plug his ears with wax, and avoid anything to do with the child."

"Knowing him, saving the baby dragon had triggered some sense of guilt in him about his own abandoned child surprise. But really, what did it matter? Both him and Calanthe were content to pretend the whole thing had never happened! He could've just carried on his merry—or rather, grumpy, brooding—way in denial... except... why the djinn first?" he said quietly.

"If thoughts of the child had truly been plaguing him that much on the mountain, if he'd carried that festering hate within him for so long, it would've been the first charge he threw in my face. Chronologically, it would match. But it was the djinn he blamed me for first. Ha! I certainly was not the one who nearly killed my friend for the want of sleep. And one could argue that he was the one who gained anything out of it."

They watched each other in silence.

"But you were on that mountain too," Jaskier said slowly. "I heard nothing, but you both fought about something, before you left. It had something to do with the djinn, didn't it. That's why we're here. Not solely because of the reputation we have in Rinde."

Yennefer's eyes squeezed shut.

"Yes," she gritted out.

They lay in bed, silent, minutes passing as the braziers slowly dimmed further and further.

"What do you know about djinn wishes?" she asked.

Jaskier shifted closer to the sorceress. His bandaged fingers brushed over hers where they rested between their bodies.

"You get three," he finally answered. "And that if you're not careful about how you phrase them, they might not work out the way you want them to."

Yennefer laughed, the sound bitter. "Yes, you've experienced that for yourself with Geralt's first wish."

Jaskier said nothing.

What was there to say? She was right.

"Djinns..." she said after a long pause, "they're twisted creatures, filled with seething rage about their imprisonment. While they cannot take it out directly on their new masters, the ones who release them from the vessels, they can exact vengeance through loopholes in the wording used for the wishes demanded from them. Wishes powerful enough to rival Destiny itself."

"Can you imagine?" she said softly. "That much sentient rage and power, percolating in a tiny bottle?"

The very thought had every hair raising on Jaskier's body. What could such a creature have distorted his prideful foolish ramblings into, on that day if he had been the djinn's master? He'd not truly understood what that had meant, despite paying for Geralt's foolishness.

He had taken the stories at face-value. As parables meant to discourage people from being greedy, or selfish, or some other vice. Even after having travelled with Geralt and seen for himself just how different and dangerous the things from stories could be.

His blood ran cold as the dots connected.

"What did he wish for?" he breathed out.

"Yen, what did he wish for with you?"

He felt more than saw the mirthless smile that crossed her face.

"He bound us. He thought that the djinn would kill me for trying to catch it, if all the wishes were used. So he tied us together, assuming that the djinn could therefore not harm either of us. An invisible leash that I had no idea of as we kept being drawn to each other, over and over, at an unnatural frequency. A pull that was damn near irresistible. Until the illusion fell apart."

Jaskier inhaled sharply.

Yennefer walking up to them at the base of the mountain.

"How is it I've walked this earth for decades without coming across a witcher, and the first one I meet, I can't get rid of?"

"What we had... what I thought we had, or what I foolishly dared to hope might have been, it was nothing more than Chaos. A wish made and concealed for years, till Borch forced it into the light."

"Fuck, that's... Yen..." was all he could say.

"Don't pity me, Jaskier," she said coldly. "I couldn't bear it."

He reached for her hastily. "No! No, it's not pity, Yen. It's just..." he trailed off helplessly.

Yennefer of Vengerberg was a wildfire. A force of nature against anything that stood in her way, unimaginably powerful and so self-possessed. Even without her chaos, the core of her remained the same unyielding stone: unstoppable in whatever she set her mind to, heedless—or regardless—of the obstacles that loomed in her path.

The thought of anyone attempting to chain her, to force her down and tame the fierce blaze into something they could use... For all his faults, Jaskier knew that Geralt was someone who always tried to do the right thing. He had likely never intended it to be that way but...

A djinn in a bottle.

Yennefer sighed, her breath a puff of air that caressed his skin.

"Either way, I am bound," she said bitterly.

"In the time after the dragon hunt, I attempted to identify the Chaos of the wish, to determine how much of myself had been affected. To see if I could parse out what was real and what wasn't."

She snorted.

"I failed miserably. No doubt the djinn had exacted its revenge for me foiling the first wish as I did. And it knew now, that I knew it was there. So it hid itself within my Chaos, till I couldn't tell where its magic ended and mine began. Which meant that nothing Geralt and I had had been real once that fucking wish was made. Or if it was, I would never be able to tell."

"How do you trust someone, when because of their actions, you can no longer trust your own mind?" she asked, though she seemed to be speaking more to herself than Jaskier. "When you have to fight a pull in their direction every day, as helpless as the tides to the moon? A tether, turned into a noose?"

"You can't," she concluded. "If you are unable to distinguish if what you feel or what you do, is not a product of your own wants and desires or if they are someone else's, it will never be a relationship of equals. It's no loving relationship at all."

Yennefer stared him dead in the eye, the violet of her irises flashing in the gloom.

"To live forever second-guessing your every thought, every action... or to accept it and live till your dying breath with the fact that you could be pulled along like a puppet on a string, at the whims and mercies of someone else... I refuse."

"I will not stand idle as my mind is turned inside out by something planted there by someone else without my knowledge. Or accept its presence and live in fear of others or myself. And if your mind is already compromised..."

A joyless smile twitched her lips, ugly in its self-recrimination. "You don't tend to realise that something else has made its way inside. And I think we both know how that recently played out."

Jaskier tasted blood on his tongue.

"Did you know," Yennefer continued casually, "that the bloody fucking witch could by-pass dimeritium? I'd had the strangest dream while in those shackles and cut off from my Chaos in a far more permanent way, not long after I burned down Sodden Hill. I'd dreamt of a little farmyard hovel. Fixed of my physical ailments, heavily pregnant, and throwing myself into Geralt's arms, after he'd come home from doing whatever farmers do."

The familiar twisting in his chest at the reminder of what he could never have had made itself known, though unlike other times, it faded away like smoke on the wind.

She laughed again, this time the sound more amused than anything else.

"In hindsight, it is hilarious that she thought it would work. She'd dug her fingers in all my weak points, yes. But her fantasy had so many gaping holes, it was a fucking joke. Can you imagine? Me, being happy and satisfied as a simple farmgirl, waiting for my husband to get home?"

Jaskier poorly concealed his snort at the thought. "Not in the least, wife mine."

"Dimeritium might not have worked on Voleth Meir, likely since she was not of this sphere," Yennefer commented absently. "But the djinn wish… that can be dealt with— though rather ineffectively—using it."

Jaskier was getting a horrible sinking feeling. "What do you mean?"

"The djinn is a creature of this realm. And the wish had thoroughly entwined itself with my own Chaos to conceal itself from me. It was difficult to notice in those moments due to all the stressors in various situations, but when I was in dimeritium and without my Chaos, there was no pull. I theorised it to be because the dimeritium isolated the bond, an insulator between the current of the wish connecting Geralt and I."

"So I tested it with a dimeritium cuff I procured, and you brought back from Yspaden. Over the past few days I wore the cuff for a significant period of time each day, and every day it successfully neutralised the pull of the wish, though my access to my own Chaos was denied in turn."

"Fuck, Yen, that's—"

"The risks were only to myself, and worth it," she cut him off.

"And before the mess with Nilfgaard, I had been working on figuring out a way to isolate the signature of the djinn wish from my Chaos. Breaking the effects of that first wish on you was hard enough. You were lucky that the wish had not manifested in other ways. But with the djinn aware of my meddling? The wish Geralt made about me is about as binding as Destiny. Unless I can find another djinn to undo the wish."

Yennefer shifted closer, the mattress dipping slightly.

"You had asked earlier on... what I've been doing. That's the thing I've been working on. To find a way to isolate the wish from myself, even if I can't break it as I would rather have. So that I can truly know my mind. To choose how to proceed in any relationship, myself."

"What can I do to help?" Jaskier asked quietly.

For a moment, there was just silence. Then a slender finger was tracing down the bridge of his nose, along the curve of his lips, and came to rest against the dip of his chin. The hand slid down, following the curve of his neck to then rest against the beating pulse at his throat.

"Jaskier," whispered Yennefer. "You are the realest thing I've known since the start of this whole mess."

"In our meetings after the djinn, you've always stood against me as an equal, blind to the fact that I could crush you with the twist of my hand. When you hated me, you still never tried to use me. When I was nothing, you offered me your unconditional help. When you're vulnerable, you still trust my claws with your belly."

"There are no hidden games with you. No catches, no debts, no masks, no tricks. When I cannot trust the pull in my head that clouds my thoughts, stronger for the lack of distance, I am certain only in you."

"Bardling, you have already done so much for me," she breathed out.

Jaskier's eyes welled up and twin tears spilled over as he squeezed his eyes shut.

Oh. Oh.

He inhaled hotly, then laid his hand over Yennefer's where it rested on his neck.

Fuck... Fuck, he was so, so in love with her.

"I never hated you," he spoke thickly. "Jealous as sin, yes, resentful even more so at times, but never hate. I don’t think it’s possible to know you and hate you, Yen. And of course I'd help you. Besides, you're the one who saved me from certain death, with everything to lose. Even now you're protecting me!"

Yennefer huffed, amused. "Let's just agree that we both look out for each other and call it a night then, husband mine."

Jaskier laughed wetly. "As you wish, darling wife."

When they arrived at the outskirts of Rinde barely two days later, it was Jaskier who was once more tasked with obtaining supplies. But to adults' dismay, Cirilla insisted on going with him, planting her feet and refusing to be moved.

After a long, spirited debate between Geralt, Yennefer, and Cirilla, to their complete and utter surprise, it was the youngest who won their argument. No one was quite sure how, not even Cirilla herself.

So while Geralt made his displeasure about the situation known by grumping all over the camp, it was Jaskier and Yennefer who helped Cirilla undergo a transformation to accompany Jaskier while posing as a father-daughter pair of traders examining the selection in Rinde.

With her hair and eyebrows dyed a deep brown to match Jaskier's own, features carefully altered with the judicious use of makeup under the combined expertise of the two adults, and a change of clothes that Yennefer had prepared a while back for just such scenarios, the pair were ready to head to Rinde.

Though not before Yennefer slipped them each an amulet that would portal them to safety if required.

"Only if your identities are revealed, or under the most dire of circumstances, should you use these, do you understand?" Yennefer had warned them. "Trigger them, and we'll have mages crawling all over the place, trying to track you both. So no using them, unless things have well and truly gone to shit and you need a quick escape."

And with that lovely warning, Jaskier and Cirilla set off, on their hopefully-not-an-adventure.

The trip to Rinde was filled mostly with silence, though Cirilla often glanced at him with that strange look seen so many times before. If not for his time as a lecturer in Oxenfurt, he'd be far more worried about her behaviour. Luckily for him, he knew that all Cirilla needed was time. Whatever she wanted to say or know, she would spit it out when she was ready, no point rushing her before that.

Thankfully for Jaskier's continued sanity, Rinde itself was entirely uneventful this time around. He wandered around town, collecting provisions and making small talk, while Cirilla trailed after him with wide, curious eyes. She followed along quietly as he visited the apothecary with Yennefer's list and the florist contact of hers who required to see the signet ring before handing him a picnic basket.

Feeling a little sorry for the girl getting dragged around everywhere with nothing to truly gain, he ushered her to the bakery, and encouraged her to get a pastry or two for herself. Her quiet delight with the chruściki earlier on in their journey had told him all he needed to know about her sweet tooth.

With their bounty successfully collected without drawing attention, and their pastries in hand, Jaskier and Cirilla began the trek back to where Geralt and Yennefer were waiting for them.

It was then, halfway back and when his guard was down, that the Lion Cub of Cintra pounced.

"So Jaskier... you, Geralt, and Lady Yennefer, all have a history of some sort, don't you?" she asked, casual as anything as she bit into her pastry.

'Ah,' thought Jaskier. 'There it was.'

"Mmm... We all go quite a while back," he replied, equally casual. "Why?"

"Because I don't understand how you all fit together," Cirilla said bluntly. "Everything I've seen about your relationships with one another contradicts itself. And Geralt is near useless in giving information that's not about witchering."

Jaskier huffed a laugh. "Yeah, he is. Though I wager he's not very good at giving information about witchering either."

"Explain it to me," Cirilla demanded.

He sighed.

"Well, the long and short of it, Princess, is that Geralt and I were travel companions for over 20 years. We met Yennefer during a misadventure 16 years into our companionship, and Geralt and Yennefer had a bit of an on-off relationship going on, which lasted 6 years, till we all had a falling out and went our separate ways. Then after things all went to shit, Yennefer and I reconnected, then Yennefer and Geralt I assume, then Geralt and I did. Which is how we all ended up at Kaer Morhen together, for the very first time ever."

Cirilla was silent for a few moments before she turned to face Jaskier. "That just made things even more confusing!"

"I don't understand!" she continued. "If you and Geralt had travelled together for so long, why is he so mean to you?! But when Lady Yennefer betrayed his trust, he just tossed me in your direction without explaining anything! And I thought he and Lady Yennefer were in love because I walked in on them kissing, but she doesn't seem to be able to stand him anymore! But she's the one who betrayed him! And you!" she jabbed a finger in his direction, "You don’t seem to be able to look at him!"

'Sweet Melitele’s tits, he really was not suited for dealing with this kind of crisis,' Jaskier thought despairingly.

Heck, he barely had any idea of what their relationships with one another were either!

"About Geralt and I," he started with a sigh. "We're just two people who spent a long time together due to our professions. He knows I'd do just about anything for him, and for someone in need. And I know if I were in danger and he knew, he would come for me. Or at least try to. But that doesn't necessarily mean we like each other."

Cirilla stared at him like he’d lost his mind. "What? Why would you spend so much time together, do all of that for one another, if you don't even like each other?"

"It's... a bit more complicated than that..." he said awkwardly.

"How is it complicated?" Cirilla asked him exasperatedly.

Jaskier had to take a few moments to figure out some way to explain it.

"In your grandmother's court, there were some people she disliked, yes?"

The princess snorted. "It was more like there were only a few she truly did like."

"But it didn't stop her from working with them, when they needed to, did it?"

Cirilla hesitated, clearly searching through her memories. Then nodded reluctantly.

"See that's the thing. When doing business, it matters not if you find that you can't imagine the individual as a friend. A good leader and business-doer can set aside their personal feelings and biases to work with people they dislike, if the dislike is emotional rather than because they're someone who does horrible things. There are times to stand firm, and times to bend."

He paused. "Whether Geralt and I like each other is irrelevant. The reasons we may or may not do so concern us alone. But we both trust the other to provide a service. Whatever our personal feelings are to each other, I can promise you that they will not affect your safety and security in any way. We are united in the common goal of giving you the very best that we can."

Cirilla did not seem particularly satisfied with that answer about his and Geralt's relationship, but she was aware that because it did not involve her, it was not hers to know about.

Jaskier was simply thankful that she did not seem inclined to pursue that line of questioning. It would not do well for her to know that Geralt had seen his child surprise as a curse, and had blamed Jaskier with unbridled hate for it.

They walked in silence while Cirilla mulled it over.

"What about Geralt and Lady Yennefer then?" she asked finally. "You said they were sort of together, before you all fell out. And I had thought they were together when we met but—" she cut herself off.

Jaskier shoved his gloved hands into his pockets.

"I think," he said carefully, "that this is a matter you would have better luck asking Geralt or rather, Yennefer, about. Because what little I do know about their relationship, Cirilla, it is heavily biased. And I cannot tell you much without breaking their confidence."

The princess seemed frustrated by his non-answer, but from her lack of response, it was clear that she had not truly expected Jaskier to answer either, given his earlier evasiveness.

"Fine," she huffed, balling the paper that had held her pastry into a crumpled mess. "What is your relationship with Lady Yennefer then."

Jaskier shot her a grin. "Now that, I can answer. Can you believe, that before the falling out, I would've called that she-hag an arch nemesis of mine?"

"What? No way!"

He laughed. "Yes way. Alright fine, nemesis is probably an exaggeration, but we certainly didn't like each other. Every encounter was a battle of wits, though I'm ashamed to admit I had more losses than wins. It's because she's ancient I tell you, she's practically a fossil!"

"Sounds like you're just a sore loser," Cirilla sniped with a cheeky grin.

Jaskier gasped in exaggerated offence. "What—No! I am not—!"

"Hmm, seems to me like you are," she replied smugly.

"Why, you—! Horrible, terrible, gremlin child! No respect for your seniors, I tell you," he grumbled.

"Sooo?" Cirilla prodded, cheerfully ignoring his muttering. "What happened next? You both now seem... cosy."

"Well, at great risk to herself and no benefit at all, she saved my life," Jaskier said simply.

"That's all it took?" she asked incredulously.

Jaskier shrugged. "Well there were a couple of other things after that, but those are far more personal."

Cirilla eyed him warily. "Are you both—?"

"Doing the do? Absolutely not," he replied with great amusement at the inherent disgust kids had of discovering what the adults in their lives got up to in their private time. "We're not quite there in our relationship. Or at all."

"Hmmm," she said, sounding painfully like her father surprise.

They meandered along in companionable silence for a while, before Jaskier—having chewed on the words for a significant time now—decided to take a risk.

"You have suffered great losses in your life, Cirilla," he said delicately, "and I would not claim to know how you feel. I do not ask you to trust Yennefer. Whatever the reason, she did betray your trust. It is not my place to determine how you should think or feel about that and her."

"But I do ask," he continued carefully, "that you consider giving her a chance. Yen is a powerful sorceress, yes, perhaps even one of the most powerful to walk the Continent. But even she is not unfailing. And once inside your head, Voleth Meir is not easy to defeat. Perhaps I shouldn't be telling you this, but she had been working on getting her hands on you for a long time, longer than you might guess."

"So please, I know it is not my place, but I ask you that you not judge Yen too harshly for her actions under significant duress," he spoke quietly as they neared the camp. "She is only as fallible as the rest of us."

They travelled the rest of the way in silence, Cirilla staring at the ground while every muscle of Jaskier's body held tense, hoping against hope that he had not inadvertently made things worse in his attempt to fix them.

Stepping into the campsite, they found Geralt meditating at the other end, Yennefer seated on the ground a short distance away, back ramrod straight. The witcher's eyes opened, and Yennefer surged to her feet, hastily crossing towards them, eyes fixed on Cirilla, before faltering and coming to a stop in the centre of the camp.

They all watched each other in that strange tableau, as if someone had forgotten their lines, uncertain of what they should be doing next.

Then Cirilla set her shoulders and started forward.

Warily, Geralt, Jaskier and Yennefer  all followed her movements as she drew closer and closer to the mage, growing more and more tense.

And all inhaled sharply as she wrapped her arms around Yennefer and held on.

Stunned, it took the sorceress a moment to realise what was happening, before she gingerly placed her hands around the girl, a hand resting on her back and the other on her hair. They stood like that for a long minute, relaxing incrementally as time passed.

Finally, Cirilla drew back. Turning back, she gave the bard a faint smile, then made her way over to Geralt.

Pleasantly shocked, Yennefer simply stared at Jaskier. Who found himself moving over to her without thinking. He stopped in front of her, and held something wrapped in paper out.

"Um, so I, ah, got you something," he stumbled over his words.

Yennefer took the offered package, the smell of baked goods wafting enticingly from it. Then looked up at him, violet eyes shining with something that looked like amazed wonder at the gifts he'd given her.

"Yeah?" she breathed out.

The corners of Jaskier’s mouth pulled up.

"Yeah," he murmured back.

Strangely enough, after their visit to Rinde, some of the tension that had permeated the air when they were all forced to interact together had faded. Cirilla began to spend more time with Yennefer, flitting between her and Geralt, relaxing enough to be more curious about Chaos and ask about it.

At night, she would visit Yennefer and Jaskier in their tent, Geralt attempting to loom discreetly at one corner as the sorceress engaged her in some of the more theoretical aspects of Chaos. Jaskier watched with quiet happiness as the two women grew closer, assisting with some of the potions work or lounging in bed with a book.

Occasionally, he would feel the weight of golden eyes on him, but where he would've tensed up under the pressure—especially after the mountain—he found himself easily forgetting it even existed, attention wholly taken up by the other two. And when Geralt and Cirilla would leave for the night, there was only Yennefer in his thoughts.

Under her ministrations, the dark magics trapped under his skin were fully expunged, and she healed the wounds left behind bit by bit over the course of three nights. While he regained nearly full flexibility and mobility, the surface scarring she could do nothing about, not without skinning his hands to regrow a fresh layer anew.

Every now and then, Jaskier would find himself feeling self-conscious about the blemishes, retreating to the safety of the concealment provided by the gloves Yennefer had gifted him, particularly in moments he felt far too seen by Geralt. But with Yennefer's gentle nudging, he found himself clinging to the crutch less and less.

Meanwhile, with Jaskier's hands fully treated, Yennefer turned her full attention back to the problem of the djinn wish. And Melitele must have been smiling down on them, because not long after, the mage had successfully created the potion that could parse and isolate the djinn magic from Yennefer's own Chaos.

They reached Gors Velen the midday after.

With passes from Yennefer's fellow mages—Triss and Sabrina—delivered to them by a messenger not long before they reached the gates, the company of four were waved through with just a brief glance. Even with Yennefer’s and Geralt's hoods thrown up, while Jaskier and Cirilla had donned their disguises from Rinde. Perks of having connections with people in high places, Jaskier supposed.

Once within the city, the group made their way to an unobtrusive inn, to book rooms and eat food that was not simply rations or caught and cooked over a campfire, and sleep in beds that resided in structures with more permanent foundations.

Cirilla devoured the food placed in front of her like she hadn't eaten in years, stuffing herself full, growing lethargic and sleepy not long after. Taking her cue, the rest hastily finished their food and headed back up to their rooms: Geralt and Ciri sharing one, while Yennefer and Jaskier shared the other.

The latter two took the opportunity to order baths, scrubbing themselves free of the road dust and then collapsing together in bed to take a nap, certain that if there was any real danger, Geralt would be the first to know and tell them.

A few hours later, Jaskier was abruptly woken by a hand shaking his shoulder, and jerked upright.

"Whaz happening? Yen?"

He noticed the finger at her lips and winced in apology. The mage bent down to whisper into his ear.

"Come with me, we're going to deal with the wish."

Jaskier found himself wide awake.

"Yen, not to be a downer, but won't your use of Chaos be noticed? Isn’t that why we never used it on the road?" Jaskier panted as they stumbled down to the shoreline.

With his boots in one hand, Jaskier found it surprisingly hard to balance the three hefty branches that he and Yen had scoured the coast for, the mage incredibly picky about the size and shape of them for some reason.

"This close to Gors Velen, where the mages are gathering before heading to Thanedd, the amount of Chaos being used on a daily level would make the casters mostly indistinguishable," Yennefer replied.

She too held her boots in one hand, and carried the basket he’d brought back from Rinde in the other.

"I've also taken the liberty of arranging for dampening wards laid down before we arrived. Triss, a friend of mine, has also arranged for an event requiring a large amount of Chaos to be conducted in sync with us, to mask our presence further."

She shaded her eyes and looked around, as though searching for landmarks to orient her position—not that Jaskier could see anything that particularly stood out as one along the wide empty stretch of beach.

"We're in the right spot," Yennefer announced. She hefted up a rock from the sand, and used it to draw a large X on the ground. "Let's set up the tripod here."

Jaskier put down his load with a relieved sigh and obeyed.

Using the three stout pieces of wood and some twine, the two of them managed to build themself a large tripod and firmly planted it deep into the sand, piling stones and driftwood they scavenged from the shore to further reinforce the structure.

Once they'd finished, the mage headed over to the basket, lying by their discarded boots, and withdrew a scale pan and a chalice from within. Jaskier eyed the items with interest.

The scale pan was made of pure silver: from the pan itself to the chains that trailed from it to the point it would be hung from. Runes and Elder speech as well as more "artistic" (in Jaskier’s opinion) etchings swirled along the surface, covering it in its entirety.

The chalice on the other hand, was a beautiful, delicate piece of crystal, but simple in its design. This too was etched, though only just below its rim, and along the outer edge of the chalice's base.

With a length of purple ribbon, Yennefer attached the scale pan to the apex of the tripod, letting it dangle at waist height in the middle. Satisfied with its positioning, she then tilted her head to study the horizon that spanned before them, shading her eyes with a hand. Around them, the sand was soaked a dark orange as the sun neared its final descent of the day.

"Bardling, hand me the hourglass, the potion, and the bracelet in the basket," Yennefer said absently.

Jaskier rushed to do her bidding, retrieving the final few items from the wicker basket.

Aside from the fact that it belonged to a mage, the hourglass he pulled out of it was seeming entirely ordinary, much to Jaskier’s disappointment.

The bracelet, next to be removed, was a delicate piece of jewellery that Jaskier would never have associated with Yennefer, made of pure silver and consisting of a pattern of flowers and leaves, though Jaskier did not have the time to examine the design more closely.

However, the most interesting of the three, was the potion he pulled out: a thin golden fluid the colour of champagne, stoppered in a bottle a few sizes larger than the ones Geralt used for his elixirs.

Under the mage's direction, he placed the hourglass on a flat rock set in front of their setup, and handed the potion and bracelet to her.

The sorceress placed the chalice dead centre on the scale pan. Light from the dying sun caught in the crystal, reflecting and refracting off it such that it seemed to have been set ablaze.

"Get ready, Jaskier," Yennefer ordered. "When I say 'turn', I need you to flip the hourglass. Then you are to run back to stand behind me."

Jaskier nodded, and knelt down beside the rock, placing his fingers on the stem of the timepiece. "Yeah, I can do that."

Then as the edge of the sun touched the horizon, Yennefer upended the potion into the chalice.

"Turn!" she yelled, and Jaskier did. Then he sprinted back to her, as she began to murmur in Elder.

The etchings along the pan and the chalice abruptly glowed a brilliant white.

All of a sudden, the cooling sea breeze started to pick up. Grains of sand swirled around them as the wind grew stronger, ripping at their hair and clothes. The waves smashed closer and closer, frothing white foam inching higher and higher where they swelled near the shore.

At the heart of it all, Yennefer remained unfazed as the elements raged around them, their feeble tripod and the fragile contents dangling from it somehow remaining undisturbed in the chaos. Out of the corner of his squinted eyes, Jaskier noticed the hourglass resetting itself, the more magical version of Chaos no doubt being involved somehow.

The spell, or whatever it was that Yennefer was attempting, seemed to last forever. Jaskier would never have known about time passing if not for the occasional reset of the timepiece that he caught sight of, or the fact that the sun seemed to have dipped lower without him noticing when he could bear to glance at it.

When the sun had exactly halfway set, Yennefer tossed the jewellery clenched in her fist into the chalice with a cry.

Nature roared back.

Then, there was an imperceptible shift in the air.

Bit by bit, the seething elements calmed as the sun inched its way down. The vigour and pace of Yennefer's chanting slowed, the movement of her hands softening. And as the last edge of the sun slipped below the surface of the sea, there was a blinding flash of green across the water—and the potion in the chalice exploded in a froth of bubbles that evaporated into nothingness, leaving only the delicate piece of jewellery behind.

Yennefer's voice trailed off. And in the ensuing silence, as the ocean breeze gently brushed against them and soothing waves lightly lapped at the sandy shore, nothing but the beauty of the coast remained.

Stepping out from behind Yennefer, Jaskier watched as the sorceress lifted the bracelet out from the chalice, a minute tremble running through her fingers. He remained silent and unobtrusive as she attempted to put it on herself, fumbling with the clasp. 

Sometimes the best thing to do was nothing. To interfere and try to help her put it on would only undermine her hard-fought-for agency, a trophy turning to a new shackle.

He held his breath as the clasp locked in place, but the look of wonder that spread across Yennefer's face stole it right out of his lungs.

"Its hold is gone," she whispered, awestruck. "I mean, the wish is still there, in one corner, but it's been locked away."

She laughed, a bright burst of pure joy. Then whirled around to face Jaskier, a wide smile threatening to split the corners of her mouth.

"Fuck! Fuck, I beat it! It's gone! Jaskier, it's gone!"

A fierce happiness swallowed him, and Jaskier found himself grinning madly back. "Fuck, Yen, you did it!"

She laughed once more, a wild untamed thing, and then threw herself at him. Jaskier surged forward to catch her, sweeping her into his arms and twirling them around in a bone-crushing hug, both of them laughing madly—Yennefer's head thrown back and her hair streaming around them.

They slowed to a standstill, panting, smiles never leaving their faces, watching each other as Jaskier swayed them gently.

"I have a choice again," Yennefer murmured, her lips softening their curve, but her smile no less genuine for it.

"You do," Jaskier agreed softly, his grin gentling to match hers.

The mage tenderly pressed a hand against his cheek, brushing her thumb against the arch of the bone.

"I think... I'd like to make that choice now," she said.

Hope dared to bloom in Jaskier's chest.

"Yeah?" he breathed out.

"Yeah," she whispered.

With the barest twitch of her hand, they found themselves falling into one another.

Falling, falling, but finding the softest landing, as their lips met in a gentle press while they kissed at the coast, silhouetted against a violet night and an ocean blue—

“Give us a call when you land, ok?”

Boba rolled his eyes exasperatedly at the third reminder. “Yes, O’buir.”

Obi-Wan smiled fondly at his child’s antics through the screen. “Sure you don’t want us to pick you up?”

“Yes, O’buir,” Boba sighed theatrically. “I’m 25. I can make my way home from the airport.”

But he couldn’t help the instinctive face he made when Jango appeared in the frame only to drape his arms around Obi-Wan’s waist and hook his chin over the other’s shoulder to kiss his cheek.

“Buir!” he said exasperatedly. “Stop doing that every time I call home, for Force’s sake. You can be sappy when I’m not there!”

Jango merely smirked at him while Obi-Wan hid a laugh behind his palm.

Oh Boba just knew his buir was doing it on purpose to get a rise outta him! He scowled at the pair, not that it did anything to stop them. No, they had been that way for 15 standard years already, and would be that way till they joined the ka’ra.

(And he wouldn’t have them any other way. He only hoped that he would one day find a riduur who would look at him the way his buire looked at each other.)

The hall speaker came alive with a chime, interrupting any further conversation.

“That must be your boarding call,” commented Obi-Wan. “Have a safe flight, dear. Love you.”

“Safe flight, Bob’ika. We’ll see you when you get home,” added Jango.

“Mm, yeah. Love you, buire.” Boba waved back at them before ending the call.

Sighing, he slid the datapad into his jacket and shouldered his carry-on before pulling on his buy’ce again. At the boarding announcement of the rows including his, he joined the others making their way onto the aircraft.

“Welcome aboard, sir,” greeted the Togrutan flight attendant, glancing over Boba’s documents. “We wish you a pleasant flight.”

Boba tipped his head briefly in acknowledgement. Ahead of him, the mass of people slowly inched their way to their seats. Lowering the audio input of his buy’ce to reduce the audible hum of the craft, he joined them, squeezing his way past people until he arrived at his row.

More preoccupied with getting his carry-on into the overhead cabin space, he did not fully register the presence of his row-mates until a cheerful chirp caught his attention.

“Oh,” he breathed out, sliding into his seat which was thankfully an aisle one. “And who might you be, ad’ika?”

Big brown eyes stared back at him curiously from an impossibly tiny body, floppy green ears twitching ever so slightly. The kid was swaddled in thick robe-like clothing and had a child’s seat belt fastened neatly over its body where it sat in the center seat. Tipping its head, the child cooed at Boba.

“His name is Grogu.”

Boba looked up at the person sitting by the window and his breath caught at the sight of the unpainted pure beskar buy’ce.

The mando was clad in an unassuming, loose-fitting outfit of a shirt, jacket and jeans. But Boba had grown up around ori'ramikade, his buir being one himself, and had seen them in all sorts of attire.

He knew an experienced combatant when he saw one.

(Not to mention beskar was still incredibly rare. Not even the ramikade owned pure pieces of beskar’gam. So for the mando to be wearing the pure unpainted metal and as their buy’ce no less, they had to be talented enough to still keep it even with all the aruetiise who would gladly slaughter them for it.)

“I see,” he murmured. Straightening up slightly, he offered his forearm. “Boba Fett. Clan Fett, House Mereel. He/him.”

The mando clasped Boba’s arm, a silent strength in their grip. “Mando. He/him,” he replied, offering no more information.

Boba merely nodded as they let go. It wasn’t the first time he’d met a traditionalist.

(And it elevated his opinion of the man’s skill even higher. Though it did also raise the question of why he had given out his ad’s name. Perhaps the child was not used to being addressed otherwise.)

“Well met, Mando.”

The child squeaked, waving his clawed hands at Boba. He laughed softly at the adorable cry for attention.

“Well met, Grogu,” he said seriously, gently grasping one tiny hand.

As the pre-flight announcements began, the mando distracted the child with a shiny silver ball. The kid was happy enough to play with the item, rolling it back and forth between his hands.

Meanwhile Boba pulled out his own datapad and busied himself with a few interesting research papers he’d not had time to read while juggling his semester’s course load. The 9-hour flight would give him more than enough time to make a sizable dent in his reading list.

He connected his buy’ce to the in-flight entertainment system easily enough, and was soon absorbed in his reading, strains of warbat trance playing over his internal comms.

Engrossed as he was, he barely registered the passing of time until a soft insistent patting of his thigh caught his attention. He looked down from his datapad to find the kid tapping the outside of his leg, wide eyes fixed on his buy’ce.

“What is it, ad’ika?” he asked quietly, switching off his music.

Grogu cooed at him and raised his arms up. Boba glanced over at the mando, but the man seemed unaware of his ad’s antics. The silver buy’ce gave no hint of what could be happening beneath, though Boba figured there was a good chance the man was fast asleep.

Truthfully it was highly unlikely that the mando would be willing to let his guard down enough to fall asleep on public transport, especially around so many strangers and with an ad to protect. But it was even more unlikely that he would let his ad interact so unreservedly with an unknown, even a fellow mando’ad, if he was aware of such interaction taking place.

At Boba’s prolonged inaction, the child grew more and more fussy, his whines getting louder as he smacked his hand forcefully against Boba’s leg.

Making his choice, Boba stowed away his datapad and unbuckled the kid’s seat belt, carefully lifting the child and settling him on his lap.

“Shhh, ad’ika,” he whispered, gently stroking one ear. “Your buir is sleeping.”

Grogu easily settled down, having gotten what he wanted. Boba wrapped a protective arm around the tiny body, cradling the kid close as he had his fill exploring Boba’s clothing, fiddling with the many zippers, pockets and buttons.

Perhaps it was the “buir instinct” that was often joked about by the mando’ade, but Boba found himself unconsciously smiling as Grogu played with the folds of his clothes, unbothered by the number of times he had to carefully disentangle the kid’s claws when they caught on the fabric.

“Patoo!” Grogu exclaimed softly. He lifted his hands up, straining towards Boba’s face.

Boba bent forward to let Grogu skitter his hands over the buy’ce’s cool surface, heedless of the strain in his neck at the awkward position. After a few gentle pats Grogu frowned, ears dipping down, then tapped the side of the buy’ce insistently.

“Do you want it off?” Boba asked curiously.

Grogu’s ears perked up. “Patoo!”

He tapped the buy’ce once more.

Sneaking a look over at the mando to make sure he hadn’t woken, Boba lowered the tray-table and helped Grogu onto it, making sure he supported the table with his legs. The child was incredibly light, but he’d rather not risk breaking the tray and/or endangering the kid either way.

Grogu watched him eagerly from his perch, and Boba huffed a laugh before pulling off his buy’ce and placing it on the kid’s empty seat.

“Patoo?” the kid whined, ears drooping as he reached for Boba.

“It’s ok, ad’ika,” Boba murmured, bending slightly to let Grogu run his hands over the scars on his face. “It’s ok, it doesn’t hurt anymore.”

The child looked at him sadly, tipping his head in silent question.

“It was an accident,” Boba replied, running a finger across the kid’s ear. “My buire and I were freediving in the ocean near our house one evening a year ago. We didn’t see them, but I ended up swimming into a couple of jellyfish.”

“My buire were terrified,” he added quietly. “I nearly died that day.”

Grogu shuffled closer to hug Boba. Running his hand down the kid’s back, for a brief moment, Boba could’ve sworn he felt an almost familiar surge of warmth engulf him.

“Hello sir, is there any food or drink option you would like to have?”

Tensing, Boba pulled away and turned to the flight attendant, an arm wrapped protectively around Grogu. He relaxed slightly when the Twi’lek female smiled down at the child and greeted him softly.

“Do you have any broth for the kid?” he asked when Grogu turned pleading eyes on him.

The attendant briefly consulted her datapad. “Yes, we do have bone broth suitable for your child. Would you like it in a toddler-friendly cup?”

“Yes. Thank you.”

The attendant handed over the cup. “Anything for you or your partner, sir?”

Boba choked, quickly disguising it with a cough as the Twi’lek looked at him in concern. “Ah, no. We’re good, thank you.”

As the attendant moved away, Boba could still feel the heat that had rushed to his ears and the back of his neck at the mistaken assumption. Grogu squeaked at him, patting at his chest.

“She thinks your buir is my riduur and you’re my ad,” he told the kid incredulously.

Grogu simply tipped his head and cooed.

“Ok, fair enough, I can see why she might think you’re my ad. But your buir's riduur? I could be a vod.”

The kid merely squirmed forward, attention fixed on the cup Boba held rather than what he was saying. Sighing, Boba helped the child off the tray-table and onto his thighs before handing the cup over. Grogu chirped happily and snuggled into Boba’s stomach, clutching his prize triumphantly.

Boba watched him absently, mind drifting back to the attendant’s words.

He’d never thought about having an ad of his own before, not seriously at least. But as Grogu sipped at the broth, perfectly content to sit on a stranger’s lap, he could slowly paint a picture of a future for himself - one with a tiny green child and an intriguing man with a pure beskar buy’ce.

He shook his head to get rid of the fanciful idea. “Di’kut,” he cursed under his breath. “I really need to get out more.”

A thump of the cup against his chest had him firmly back in reality.

He took the offending item. “Done, Gro’ika?”

Grogu nodded seriously at him. Then to his amusement, a large yawn escaped the tiny body, almost causing the kid to topple over if not for Boba.

“Looks like it’s nap time for someone.”

Grogu yawned once more in agreement. Burrowing himself back in Boba’s arms, he blinked tiredly a few times, and was soon out like a light. Boba tucked the folds of his jacket around the kid and leaned back against the headrest.

It really wasn’t so bad - taking care of an adiik.

The dim light and low drone of the aircraft quickly had Boba feeling the exhaustion of the day. And within minutes, he too unintentionally slipped into sleep.

“Hey,” a low voice called as someone shook his arm. “We’re landing soon.”

Boba’s eyes snapped open, body tense, only to meet the dark T-visor of the mando. A surge of discomfort coursed through him as his bare face was reflected back at him.

Then he remembered the child.

“I-” he spluttered, looking down at the kid who was still fast asleep in his arms. “I didn’t mean to-”

“It’s fine,” the mando cut him off, the smooth metal of his buy’ce giving no hint of true emotion. “Let him sleep. He’s had trouble doing so the last few days.”

Boba couldn’t help the flush that crept up his neck. Here he was bare-faced (the ugly scars criss-crossing his visage exposed) and cuddling a traditionalist’s child without their express permission, and somehow he was still alive and unharmed.

It was a kriffing miracle. His buir would’ve killed others for less.

Really, the only saving grace of the situation was that his aliit was not there to make fun of his massive misstep, for which he sent a quick thanks to the ka’ra.

Then he hastily grabbed his buy’ce off the seat between them and shoved it on. And just in time too, because the flight attendants were making their landing rounds.

“Good morning sirs,” greeted the same flight attendant from before. “Could you please have your child seated with their seatbelt fastened? We will be landing soon.”

Boba’s face was on fire under his buy’ce. He was already in deep enough osik with the mando, and now the attendant’s misunderstanding was putting him in an even worse spot!

He opened his mouth to hastily correct the attendant when the mando spoke.

“We understand. Thank you.”

Boba’s jaw dropped. As the attendant went down the other rows, he numbly placed Grogu back in his seat and watched as the mando carefully fastened his kid’s seat belt.

Mando was definitely one of the strangest traditionalists he’d ever met.

“Sorry,” he finally spoke. “About the attendant, she-”

“I know. I was awake,” replied Mando. “Since Grogu started trying to get your attention.”

“Oh he was no trou- Wait. You were awake the whole time?”

Mando huffed a laugh, a warm sound that not even the vocoder could completely disguise.

“He’s fond of you. It’s… unusual,” the mando said slowly. “He generally doesn’t like others very much.”

“I see,” Boba replied faintly.

They remained in silence as the aircraft landed and everyone around them began to disembark. Boba stood as the mando unbuckled his and Grogu’s seat belts.

“Do you have a carry-on?” he asked, pulling out his own bag to sling over his shoulder.

“Elek,” said the mando. “Same compartment.”

Boba nodded and pulled out the only other bag as Mando picked up his child. When the other reached out to take the bag, Boba shook his head. “It’s fine, I can take it.”

“You have an ad,” he added when it seemed like the mando would argue.

That seemed enough to convince the mando, and the two began the long process of going through customs and collecting their luggage.

By the time they finally exited the arrival hall, Grogu was wide-awake and happily cooing at all the new sights and sounds, eagerly pointing things out to both the mando and Boba. They came to a halt right outside the taxi stand.

The mando handed the silver ball to Grogu, and the child quietened, content to play with the item.

“Vor entye, Boba Fett,” he finally said.

Boba immediately shook his head. “There is no debt between us. Children are the future.”

“This is the Way,” replied the mando quietly.

They stood in silence for a moment longer.

“Do you have a place to go?” Boba asked. “Because, you could come over for a while if you want. My buire love kids, and-”

Grogu startled as a taxi sped by, dropping the metal ball with an upset squeak, which then bounced onto the road.

“Grogu,” the mando began, when the child lifted his tiny hand and the ball zipped back into it.

Boba inhaled sharply. “A Force-user.”

Beside him, the mando went still, a predatorial calm that sent klaxon sirens ringing through Boba’s head.

“Udseii, Mando,” he said evenly, making sure to keep his posture calm and unthreatening. “I will not harm you or your ad.”

At his side, the edge of a blade threatened to slice into him. “You’re not the first nor the last to say that.”

“Haat, ijaa, haa'it!” Boba swore readily. “My buir and some of my vod are jetiise, Mando. I promise you, neither my aliit nor I will harm you or your ad.”

At that, the mando finally relaxed. For the first time, Boba could see the exhaustion that threatened to swallow the other whole, and he found himself instinctively reaching forward to steady the man.

“Your buir, could you- could you take me to them?” the mando asked. “I was told to find a Jedi. I- I can’t- The child, he’s not safe. There are people hunting him.”

Grogu whined, sensing his buir’s distress. Boba’s heart, already firmly in the kid’s grasp, ached as the mando tried to sooth the child.

Jaskier watched from out-of-view as the destined trio made plans amongst themselves out on the battlements of Kaer Morhen. Plans which very much excluded him. Then turned and headed back to the room he'd claimed for himself to finish erasing his presence from the keep.

He could ask Yennefer to portal him back to Oxenfurt or something tomorrow.

There was a knock on the door later that night.

"Come in," he called out.

The door swung open to reveal the witch.

"Yennefer," he said, rising from the bed, concern leaking into his voice. "Is there something you need? Anything I should do?"

She shook her head and stepped through, closing the door behind her.

"It's more what I can do for you, bardling."

Jaskier stared at her, bemused. "What you can do for me?"

She strode right up to him and took his wrist, her grip as gentle as it would be around a fragile chick in her hand.

Jaskier looked down, then away again quickly as the burns on his fingers and palm flared painfully in reminder. He didn't want to see them. If he didn't see them, he could pretend that their condition wasn't as bad as he had the feeling they were.

"Oh bardling…" Yennefer said softly.

His head whipped up to look at her. "Is it that bad?" he asked, horrified.

She didn't reply, only lifted up his other hand to examine it as well.

The back of Jaskier's eyes burned, matching the throbbing he was trying to ignore in his hands.

Yennefer finally broke the deathly silence that filled the room with a sigh.

"Fire magic is forbidden for a reason, Jaskier," she said gently. "The price I paid for burning half of Nilfgaard's army to the ground was the loss of my Chaos, albeit temporarily."

She stroked a thumb over the skin of his wrist. "It won't be easy. And it'll likely be excruciating for you. But I think I can extract the lingering magic, and then heal the actual wounds after."

Jaskier let out a shuddering breath, part in relief and part in fear of what was to come. "Anything... Anything as long as I can play again."

Yennefer looked him in the eye. "I cannot make guarantees, bardling. But I promise you, I will do my best to restore your hands to their former delicate state," she teased.

"It's better than nothing," Jaskier replied with a trembling smile.

She smiled back at him, a genuine one that shyly showed her teeth and made her look even more stunning than he’d ever seen her look before, dishevelled as she still was. And despite all his jealousy, she had always been so very stunning.

"Come," said Yennefer. "We best start as soon as possible. It's never good to let such magics linger longer than necessary."

Jaskier nodded, and the two of them made their way down to the deserted laboratory.

When they arrived, Yennefer immediately began pulling items off the shelves, a purposeful whirlwind of activity. With nothing in particular to do, Jaskier seated himself on a bench in the centre of the space to watch the mage work her magic.

It wasn’t long before the antsy feeling that had long made itself home in the pit of his stomach since the encounter with the fire mage had him finally speaking up.

"Can't you just wave your hand over mine, chant stuff in Elder and fix my hand like you did the witchers?"

Yennefer deposited a bunch of herbs and jars in front of him then bustled off to grab some of the beakers, mortars, pestles and other equipment.

"It's risky to try directly attacking the magic with mine now," she replied as she examined the offerings available. "And I’ve never attempted to heal damage from fire magic before."

"The chance for accidental damage from backlash is too high right now since it’s had time to seep deep into your flesh. Prying it back out is going to be quite the challenge. I plan on using pastes and balms to slowly pull the magic back to the surface over time and then use my own magic to scrape the topmost layer off, hopefully without triggering a backlash."

Jaskier kept his hands hidden under the table. "How painful will it get?"

The mage placed her bounty beside the others. "There will be a low-grade tingling or burning sensation when the paste I have in mind begins to draw out or to the surface any loose magic.”

“The actual removal however," she grimaced sympathetically, "that will probably be as painful as when you first received the burns. Maybe even more so since it's been left unattended for so long."

Swallowing thickly, Jaskier then asked, "Is this like a one-and-done thing?"

Yennefer shook her head. "If we're very lucky, 3 days."

The pit in his stomach widened. “And if I’m unlucky?”

The sorceress stilled before finally replying, not looking at him, “3 weeks to a month. Daily.”

“Fuck…” The word left his mouth in an unconscious shuddering breath.

Yennefer dumped the contents she had been examining back onto the table and crossed over to him in a few purposeful strides, then grabbed his elbows with both hands, holding him.

“You will get your hands fully healed, Jaskier,” she said, violet eyes searing into his own blue. “No matter how long it takes, or how much magic I need to pour into you, we won’t let that Firefucker win. Not while we’re still alive to stick it to him.”

Jaskier huffed, the sound shaky even to his ears. “What happened to not making guarantees, Yennefer?”

He swallowed, then dropped his gaze to somewhere beyond her shoulder, unable to meet her eyes any longer.

“You have far more important things to do than waste your Chaos on a useless bard, witch,” he said quietly. “There’s a child who needs you. Your strength and power. A child being hunted by forces beyond my most terrifying nightmares.”

Yennefer shook him lightly. "I'm the one who decides what I will and will not expend my Chaos on, not you, bardling." Her tone softened. "What is this really about, Jaskier? All this will cost me is time, application of skill, and an easily recoverable amount of Chaos."

The shards of his heart twisted in his chest, slicing new gashes into him. Fuck, was she really gonna force him to spell it out?

From the way she kept looking at him, it seemed so. Jaskier inhaled slowly.

"Yennefer," he gritted out. "I may play the part of a foolish bumbling bard most of the time, but I'm not actually an idiot. I heard you, Geralt, and Cirilla making plans earlier. And with three all-powerful beings on the run from equally powerful forces, the last thing they need is dead weight in the form of a helpless injured human bard trailing after them."

He spread his arms wide sardonically. "Let's say we're lucky and you can fix this in three days! Can you even afford to wait three days? Geralt is all for leaving as soon as possible, and with good reason too. What're a few measly burns compared to the continued safety of his daughter?"

Before Yennefer could interrupt, he barrelled onwards. "And if we're unlucky, then you'll have to account for the burden of me travelling with you for a month. Not to mention all the time and resources you'll need to spend on me, and I'm not referring to just the healing here."

"Are you done?" Yennefer asked, unimpressed.

Jaskier scoffed and waved a hand as he slumped back onto the bench. "Be my guest."

"Do you think me incompetent, Jaskier?"

His head snapped up at that. "What?"

"Do you think me incompetent? Or perhaps arrogant and overestimating my abilities? Incapable of understanding the severity of situations?"

"No!" Jaskier blurted out. "That's not what I—"

"Then what are you thinking?" Yennefer cut him off. "Because every way I look at it, it seems like you either think I'm unaware of exactly what is involved in the effort of healing you, or you think I am unable to evaluate courses of action and make appropriate decisions."

"That's—I—"

Yennefer rolled her eyes. "There's no need for you to pull the martyr act on me too. As flattered as I am, let's not forget who saved whom even without her Chaos, husband dearest. I know exactly what I'm getting into. And you are well aware that I do anything and everything required once I decide on a course of action."

Jaskier's mouth flopped open and closed. "I—You—" He jabbed a finger in her direction. "You changed your mind about killing that dragon!"

"Because the situation had evolved and so I evaluated the changed circumstances and decided on the appropriate course of action. Do keep up."

Jaskier deflated. "Yennefer, I—" He weighed the words carefully in his mouth before finally letting them out. "I have nothing to offer."

"And Geralt... he never realised, or perhaps he simply didn't care to look, and at this point I don't want to know which it was. But travelling with you all would mean that he would find out, about"—he held out his palms—"this. And I don't want him to care about this simply out of his over-inflated sense of guilt. I know where I stand in his life. And I'm not eager to have a refresher."

Yennefer shrugged. "Frankly I don't see why he or Cirilla need to be involved in this at all. I'm more than happy to keep this between the two of us. Can't give them the impression that I've suddenly caught Geralt's saviour-complex."

He gaped at her. "Then how, exactly, were you planning on explaining my presence amongst your motley crew?"

"Wouldn't you like to know?" A playful smirk danced across the witch's face. "Let's start work on your hands first. Then we'll talk."

Stunned, Jaskier could only huff a laugh and collapse back down onto the bench. "Well, it's not like I have any other commitments I can attend to after all."

He watched quietly as Yennefer worked her magic: chopping and crushing herbs, boiling and filtering liquids, mixing solvents and fats into pastes and balms, murmuring spells ever so often.

By the end of the process, she had two bowls of pastes sitting between them on the cluttered workstation. Brushing the loose strands of hair that had begun to frizz out of her face, the mage stalked around the room looking for something, before letting out a noise of satisfaction as she unearthed two pieces of scrap metal from deep within the shelves.

Jaskier raised a questioning eyebrow as she dumped the pieces onto the table, only for his mouth to drop open into a soft 'o' of surprise and understanding after she waved a hand over the pieces and muttered a few words in Elder, transmuting the pieces into two small elegant tins.

The sorceress neatly packed the mixtures into the two tins, leaving behind a small portion of the thicker paste within the bowl.

"The problem," she exhaled as she slammed her palm onto the tins to tighten the lids shut, "is that these kinds of magics either require a lot of Chaos for it to linger, or needs to be remade often since the potency of it deteriorates quickly. And since we can't afford to overdo the magic, helping me remake these is going to be one of your tasks while we travel."

Jaskier looked at her with no small amount of confusion given the state of his hands but smartly kept his mouth shut. She was hardly going to make him do something that would worsen his condition, given the sheer amount of effort she was putting into fixing it.

"I assume, from your words," he ventured, "that I have other tasks you need me to complete, yes?"

"Of course." She washed her hands and dried them on a piece of nearby fabric. Then with a quick spell, filled another bowl with gently steaming water. Getting a clean piece of linen from the cupboard, she dipped the fabric into the water and wrung it till it was merely damp, unbothered by the heat. And laid her open palm on the table after. "Your hand, Jaskier."

Every single muscle in his body immediately tensed. Jaskier swallowed and breathed slowly. Yennefer was not going to hurt him.

In 4 counts, out 8 counts.

Then raised his hand, and laid it palm-up atop of hers.

Yennefer's lips quirked into a fond smile and her thumb stroked the back of his hand soothingly. "I'll be as quick as I can."

Without waiting for a reply, she began to wipe the injuries clean. As gentle as she tried to be, each passing stroke of the fabric felt like abrading his skin on jagged rock and spilling salt into the wound right after. Tears welled up in his eyes and a low keening sound filled the room, like a wounded animal was trapped inside with them.

Wet trails dripped down Jaskier's cheeks and his hand spasmed in Yennefer's, muscles blindly reacting and struggling to get away. The mage was far stronger than she appeared however, and with the speed of a pit viper, yanked her hand from under his to carefully pin his palm open with the spread of her fingers, avoiding the worst of the wounds.

She made low soothing noises even as Jaskier gasped and wriggled in place, body and head locked in battle; his flesh demanding him to get away while his mind fought to stay in place to make the whole thing less painful and get over faster.

"Almost done, bardling, almost done," Yennefer murmured.

When she finally put away the piece of fabric, a broken sob of relief escaped Jaskier. He yanked his hand back to his stomach, doubling over slightly to shield it.

It was then he realised that the thing in the room that had been whining in pain had been him.

Yennefer gently wiped away the fresh tears that fell. "You're doing well, bardling." Then tucked his hair behind his ear. "We've got to apply the paste now. Then we'll take a quick break before dealing with the other hand, alright?"

Jaskier inhaled and coughed, snot clogging up his nose and throat disgustingly.

"Okay," he warbled hoarsely, then reluctantly placed the stinging hand back onto the table.

Yennefer scooped up some of the mixture with her fingers.

"There's a mild analgesic component within this that'll help reduce the amount of pain you're experiencing," she said as she began to spread a thick layer of paste onto his hand.

It was cool, causing his skin to tingle as the burning sensation from the cleaning slowly began to abate. The sorceress made sure to cover every bit of skin, even rubbing it into the delicate skin between the fingers.

She then carefully wrapped his hand in a long clean strip of linen, each digit individually bandaged. The sensations that lingered in his hand were strange, his skin feeling tight and stretched while the tingling remained in the background.

"Here." Yennefer pulled a delicately embroidered handkerchief out of her dress pocket. The fabric was a lovely cream shade, and there were small sprigs of lavender in light purple thread decorating the corners of the kerchief. "Blow your nose. There's no need for you to sound like a snotty five-year-old."

Jaskier opened his mouth. "Are you—"

Yennefer rolled her eyes. "I'm sure. It's easy enough to clean anyway."

Jaskier laughed, the sound wet and as snotty as she described. "Alright then."

He took the kerchief between his bandaged fingers and found great satisfaction in blowing his nose like a trumpet, the sound echoing long and loud in the otherwise empty laboratory, and eliciting a delightful look of disgust on the mage's pretty face.

"Urgh," she vocalised, lips curling into a sneer. "Make sure you drop that far, far away from me."

Jaskier had to wrestle down the instinctive urge to shove it into her face at the golden opportunity to irritate her she'd handed to him on a platter. As much as he enjoyed one-upping her, he’d hardly get to savour the satisfaction before she'd crush him like a bug under her fashionable pointy heels. Plus, gift horses and mouths, you know?

From the way she side-eyed him, he had the feeling that she'd caught all of that. He smiled beatifically at her and plopped the handkerchief at the other end of the table away from her. She huffed.

"Other hand now, bard," was all she said, once again dipping the cloth she'd used to clean his hand earlier back into the still steaming water and wringing it like she was imagining it was his neck.

"Now?!" Jaskier squeaked.

"No time like the present. It's only going to get worse if you let the anticipation get to your head."

The bard grimaced. Then laid his other hand out on the wood like he was resting his head on an executioner's block. Yennefer's fingers once again spread out over his palm, holding it open and in place.

'At least there are fewer burns on this one,' was all Jaskier had time to think before the fabric was being dragged over his skin once more.

A scream caught in his throat, only a high-pitched whine escaping him. Tears bubbled over and spilled as he squeezed his eyes shut, fingers flexing as he fought to keep himself from twisting out of the sorceress's grasp.

There was a brief pause. Then a gentle hand was guiding his head into the crook of a neck. Lilac and gooseberries filled his nose.

"Breathe, bardling. Remember to breathe."

He shuddered as he breathed in for four, and exhaled hotly from his mouth for eight.

The cloth once again resumed its journey over his skin. Clear rivulets dripped down his face and dampened the fabric of Yennefer's high collar and the skin of her neck.

"Just a bit more now, bardling," she said quietly. "Almost done."

A keening noise left him, and the cloth was hastily put away. He sniffled as the paste was gently smeared over his skin, stealing away the pain, and then more fabric wrapped quickly and neatly around his hand. He turned his head slightly and was filled with a sense of quiet fondness as he spotted Yennefer tying off the bandage in a fluffy bow around his wrist.

"We're done for today," she said, rubbing her thumb over his wrist and letting him hide a little longer. "We'll leave it for about 24 hours, then see how much magic the paste manages to pull out first. Then I'll adjust the frequency and potency if required."

"Alright," Jaskier replied quietly.

She let him stay in the safety of her neck for a few moments more, before sliding her hand around his back and standing the both of them up. Jaskier reluctantly began to pull himself away, but Yennefer's arm firmly hauled him back into her side.

"You can stay with me in my room," she decided as she waved a hand and all the equipment she'd used began to wash and float back to their places on the shelves. "It'll let me keep an eye on you for any adverse effects or reactions."

With another wave of her hand, the air in the room suddenly seemed to freshen.

"So that they can't smell your..." she trailed off, tipping her head meaningfully.

Jaskier nodded in relief. "Right..."

He couldn't believe that he had so easily forgotten just how good witchers' sense of smell was. The last thing they needed was for the stink of fear, pain, and tears along with Yennefer's magic to raise questions and make things complicated. It would hardly endear her to them any further, given the amount of effort she was going through to respect his wishes in keeping the whole thing quiet.

A tremble ran through the sorceress's body which she tried and failed to hide, given that he was plastered to her side. And suddenly Jaskier was wide awake.

"Shit, Yennefer, are you alright?!"

Yennefer glared at him, opened her mouth to tell him exactly where to shove his concern, then deflated slightly. "I may have overdone it slightly," she finally said reluctantly. "I just got my Chaos back after months of being without it, my body needs time to get used to it again."

"Like a muscle," said Jaskier.

Yennefer shrugged. "Sort of."

"Well it's a good thing that the only thing left on both of our agendas today is sleep," said Jaskier, guiding them out of the laboratory and into the corridor.

"Not even those creepy monster thingies can stop me from collapsing on a mattress and dropping straight off to sleep. I've had enough excitement for the next week!"

He took a few steps down the right turn and then stopped. "Uh, which way to your room again?" he asked sheepishly.

Yennefer snorted, lips twitching with mirth. "The other way, bardling."

Jaskier spun the two of them around and began to march back down the left corridor. "Righty-ho! To bed we go!"

The two of them stumbled into the room Yennefer had claimed as her own.

It was a sad room really, as small as Jaskier's and equally as empty. The only thing that made it better than his was that it was slightly warmer naturally, no draught seeping in from some unidentifiable place.

"I don't know what I expected," Jaskier announced at large as he kicked the door shut. "But this is just sad. Isn't it, wife mine? A cold keep with cold rooms filled with cold witchers."

Yennefer slipped away from him and knelt next to the fireplace. "Well it's a good thing that I have my husband to warm my bed for me then, since we're liable to freeze surrounded by all this cold," she called.

"Yes, exactly!" Jaskier said wildly. "And so there's very much no need to go about messing with the hearth when you have this smoking hot body ready to warm the ice-cubes you call toes right up!"

The mage slowly twisted around to stare at him, one shapely eyebrow raised high on her forehead.

"Ah..." she said after a few beats.

"Can we not discuss this?" Jaskier asked desperately.

Yennefer got up. "We can leave it for tonight," she said. "But we'll have to discuss it at some point because you won't be able to hide that for long when we're travelling."

Jaskier snorted bitterly. "Yes, well, considering Geralt never realised anything this whole time, I wouldn't worry about that too much."

Yennefer considered him for a few moments, then seemed to decide that his issues with Geralt were not her problem to solve. "Well it's still winter and I would like to stay somewhat warm at least. Give me a few moments."

She pointed at the sorry excuse of a mattress. "Sit."

"I'm not a dog, Yennefer," Jaskier complained. But sat exactly as she had instructed him.

She grinned that lovely impish grin again and his heart did a little flop in his chest. "Good boy," she cooed.

The tips of Jaskier's ears reddened, though thankfully covered by the length of his hair. He scowled at her. Unfazed, her smile widened and she laughed—a soft, short sound. Then with a wiggle of her fingers, strode out of the room to do whatever dastardly deed she had planned.

Jaskier huffed and flopped back onto the bed, wriggling to get comfortable on the lumpy thing, though there was not much comfort to be found. With a long, loud sigh, he stared up at the grimy stone ceiling and tried to recall the chords of the song he'd come up with in the cell Geralt had liberated him from.

‘Whoreson Prison Blues,’ he decided to call it.

He'd been humming variations of the chorus for a couple of minutes when the door to the room swung open again, and Yennefer strode into the room, a smooth hunk of rock floating in front of her.

"Yen!" he gasped, shooting up. "You're not supposed to be using your Chaos anymore today!"

The mage simply patted him on the shoulder condescendingly. "I've been alive for decades more than you, bardling. I can push through a bit of overexertion, I know where my limit is. I found it at Sodden. Now get up."

Jaskier wrinkled his nose at her but got up. She threw back the thin covers and let the stone slowly pass over the expanse of the mattress.

"Soapstone?" he asked. "Where did you find that?"

Yennefer nodded. "Transmuted it from a broken hunk of the keep walls. It didn't cost me much, stop fretting, Jaskier," she cut him off as he opened his mouth.

"I know, I know,” he sighed. “It's just, you don't have to keep exerting yourself to accommodate me."

The sorceress gave him a wry look. "Who said I'm accommodating you?"

He stared blankly at her for a moment, then it clicked. "Ah..." he said.

"Ah..." she repeated drolly.

"Well, at least we'll be warm and toasty," Jaskier said cheerily.

"Mmm," the witch hummed. Then wrapped the stone in a fur and laid it at the foot of the bed. "Boots off and into the bed with you, husband."

"As you wish, wife!" said Jaskier, then he wrestled his boots off and tumbled onto the mattress.

Yennefer sighed, the sound irritated and fond, and shoved him further across and nearly into the wall before sitting on the bed and ridding herself of her own shoes. She then slid into the bed and pulled the thin sheet over them both.

The two of them laid quietly, staring at the ceiling, an awkward silence filling the room with its unwanted presence.

The mage loudly sighed again, then flipped onto her side, her back to Jaskier. "Come on, husband dearest. I was promised that I'd be warmed up by a smoking hot body, wasn't I?" she mocked.

A shocked laugh escaped Jaskier at that, and he turned to face the elegant curves of her side. Taking a deep breath to steal some courage, he wriggled over till there was barely any distance at all between them and tentatively draped an arm over her waist.

"Is this ok?" he breathed.

The silence remained unbroken, and for a brief moment, panic rushed through him and he nearly drew back.

Then Yennefer shifted backwards slightly, pressing her back to his front and tucking his face into the crook of her neck. "It's fine. Go to sleep, bardling."

"Ok," he whispered, fingers curling. "Good night."

"Night," came the quiet reply.

And for the first time in over a year, Jaskier closed his eyes and almost immediately dropped off into a deep, dreamless sleep.

"Jaskier... Jaskier..."

Two icy hands smacked his face and squished his cheeks together and the bard's eyes flew open.

"I'm up! I'm up!" he squawked, flailing.

"Rise and shine, husband dearest," Yennefer sing-songed as she pulled at his cheeks with an evil grin. "We've got a busy day ahead of us."

Jaskier batted at her with his bandaged hands, getting her to let go of him. He rubbed at his aching cheeks with an unconscious pout and shot her a glare.

"Come on," Yennefer said briskly. "Get anything you want to bring with you from your room, we're heading down to the hall for breakfast before we finish the last of the packing. Geralt wants to leave before mid-morning."

Jaskier raised an eyebrow at her. Then sighed and spread his arms open wide. "This is it."

Yennefer's eyes narrowed in confusion. "What is it?"

"I mean, this is all I have," he said slowly.

The mage's eyes flashed. "You mean to say Geralt dragged you here with nothing but the clothes on your back?"

"He was a bit preoccupied with pumping me for information about you and dragging me along on his hunt for his missing Child Surprise," Jaskier replied. "And then instructing me to bring her here, a place I've never been before in the 20 over years I've known him, mind you. I have no idea what he was thinking either. Or maybe he just wasn't."

"Of all the—" Yennefer bit out, then breathed out slowly. "Alright. So we should start with getting you a change of clothes. You're wearing the same thing from our encounter in Oxenfurt for fuck's sake!"

"It would be appreciated," he said wryly.

Yennefer sighed. "Well now's a good time to give you these I suppose," she groused, then tossed something into his lap.

Jaskier picked up the beautiful pair of supple black leather gloves. Which were exactly in his size.

"Yen..." he breathed out.

The mage shrugged. "It was nothing. I found a spare pair and simply resized it. It'll do a good job of covering those—" she nodded at his bandages "—and also keep your fingers from getting frostbite. I don't want to have to treat multiple kinds of burns, just the one is more than enough for me."

Jaskier pulled one on and Yennefer helped him with the other. "You're the best wife a man could ever hope for," he said, admiring the look of them.

"Of course I am," she said smugly. Then pulled him up and out of bed. "Breakfast, bard. Now. Chop chop."

They walked into the mostly empty hall arm-in-arm. Yennefer led him straight to a table at one corner where a plate and small bowl had been made up. Towards the middle of the room at the other end of another table, sat two witchers, quietly eating. Though they brooded more than they ate.

"Eat," ordered Yennefer, all but shoving him down onto the seat in front of which the plate sat. "There are only a few more things I need to get done, then we'll go."

When she made no move to head off, Jaskier placed a slice of hard cheese and cured meat on a piece of bread and took a bite.

The sorceress pointed a finger. "Make sure you finish the whole plate, bardling. Or else." And with that ominous threat, spun on her heel and strode out of the hall.

Jaskier glanced down at his plate and mechanically began to eat. Bread, cheese, cured meat and a small bowl of some porridge. Not quite a feast, but food was food. At least it wasn't bread rolls thrown at his head. He shook his head to clear it. There was no need to be glum when the day had only just begun. 

Chewing, he let his gaze wander.

The damage from the attack the day before was even more stark without adrenaline to cloud his vision. The debris hadn't even all been cleared from the place, only shifted to the sides here and there to make the hall accessible. The whole debacle had been a shitstorm.

"Dammit Jaskier, why is it that whenever I find myself in a pile of shit these days, it's you shovelling it?!"

He swallowed. Suddenly, he wasn't very hungry anymore.

The sound of boots stomping down the hall, getting closer and closer to him, had him fixing his gaze on the plate. If he shoved the food into his pants, what were the chances the witch would sniff it out and turn him into a newt for not finishing the whole thing as ordered?

A plate was slammed onto the table and a body thumped into the seat opposite him.

"I'm sitting here. Is that a problem?"

Jaskier lifted his eyes to meet those of the painfully young girl in front of him, face hard and just daring him to say anything.

"No," he replied quietly.

"Good!" she spat, seeming almost disappointed that he didn't give her an excuse to start a fight, yet poorly hiding relief that he hadn't rejected her presence.

The two of them sat in silence, Cirilla tearing into her breakfast like she was imagining it was her enemies heads while Jaskier pushed the remaining few bits of his food around the plate.

"Are you going to eat that?" she asked him around a mouthful.

Jaskier looked at his plate, then at the girl's empty one. "No, not particularly hungry," he said, pushing it over. "You can have it."

Cirilla transferred the food over. "Thanks," she said. "But you're finishing the porridge on your own though."

The bard nodded and picked up his spoon. He had just been scrapping the last of it out of the bowl, Cirilla licking her fingers like a heathen instead of a Crown Princess, when the sound of footsteps filled the hall once more.

"Cirilla, we need to—" Geralt came to a stop. "Jaskier."

Jaskier gave him a false smile. "That's my name, yes."

"Fuck..." From the guilt in his eyes that he was trying to conceal, it was blatantly obvious that he'd forgotten Jaskier was even there.

Jaskier finished the last spoonful of porridge. It slid down his throat like a lump of wet coal: sticky, filthy, and liable to choke him. He placed the spoon neatly beside the bowl. Geralt just stared at him guiltily.

"We need to—I'll see if we can portal you—Yen!" Geralt yelled for the sorceress.

The sharp clicks of her heeled boots on stone heralded her approach.

"What is it, Geralt?" she gritted out as she stormed in. "Don't yell for me unless someone's dying. I'm not a dog to come to heel every time you call."

Jaskier snorted. "Pot," he pointed at her, then at himself, "meet kettle."

Yennefer rolled her eyes at him. Then turned to face Geralt. "So, is someone dying?"

"Yen, I need you to portal Jaskier back to Oxenfurt."

"No."

"What?" Geralt seemed genuinely stunned by her refusal. "Why?"

"Because he's coming with us."

The witcher's eyes flashed. "Yen," he growled.

"Geralt," she said back, a thinly-veiled mocking hint in her tone.

"Yen, he's human," Geralt ground out. "And a bard. We can't just—"

"Yes, he's human," Yennefer cut in calmly. "And when everyone is on the hunt for an easily-identifiable witcher, a mage wanted by the Brotherhood, and a lost Cintran Princess every kingdom is salivating over to use as a pawn, who better to blend in and get what we need than a regular human? Every bit of Chaos we expend from now on will leave a trace, a trail that can lead a persistent, dedicated hunter straight to us no matter how well I obfuscate our tracks, because we can’t avoid it completely."

"So tell me Geralt," she continued. "Were you planning to simply hide out and play hide-and-seek in the densest woods you can find for the next few years? Because that certainly isn't a sustainable long-term solution."

"And whose fault is it that I'm so recognisable?" Geralt snapped back. "I didn't ask to have songs sung about me and spread all about the Continent."

"No," the mage sneered. "You managed that just fine on your own decades ago, Butcher."

Geralt’s eyes blew wide as he recoiled, face turning white from the unexpected gutting. Jaskier flinched.

The witcher and the mage’s eyes immediately snapped to him, predators sensing movement from prey. Cirilla had earlier twisted around in her seat to watch the two of them argue, and stared back at them both, gaze shuttered.

Something that looked like remorse flickered in violet eyes and Yennefer looked away first, the barest hint of a sigh escaping her lips.

"The facts are these," she told Geralt. "We cannot use magic in the open on our way to Aretuza, not if we don't want to be tracked. We are far too recognisable as ourselves. We will need supplies on our journey. We cannot avoid passing through settlements. Ergo, we need someone who knows how to play people and disseminate misinformation to throw people off our tracks. Someone who is used to presenting themself as required in various situations. Someone who will not raise people's alarms nor attract the wrong kind of attention."

Jaskier dropped his head to hide the small smile that grew on his face as Yennefer spoke. He rubbed at the buttery leather of the gloves she'd made him, concealing the salved hands and carefully-wrapped bandages beneath. His ears and the back of his eyes tingled from the confidence with which she spoke about him, the way she'd recognised the skills of his trade. The value she saw in him.

His heart grew two sizes bigger in his chest. There was no denying that she cared about him. Every word, every deed she'd done from the time they met in Oxenfurt screamed it.

So of course Destiny had to burst his bubble.

"And you think that someone is Jaskier," Geralt stated with derision. "Yennefer, he's far from subtle, he gets himself into trouble every other moment thinking with his prick, he never knows when to keep his mouth shut, and has gotten the two of us thrown out or chased out from an incredible number of places. You've only met him briefly for a handful of times, you don't know him at all if you think he is the person you need."

Jaskier's ears and eyes burned, for a completely different reason now, and he ducked his head further, turning it to let his hair conceal his face. A heated flush crept up the back of his neck. Gods, Geralt wasn't even exactly wrong, he was indeed responsible for all that. It was just... Fuck, twenty years! Over twenty years they'd known each other, and the sum and total of his character in Geralt's eyes was that. Did he bother to see him at all?

Fuck, no wonder Geralt had gotten rid of him on the mountain...

Yennefer stared at Geralt for long moments in silence. Shook her head lightly as if to clear it, then laughed. It was a brittle, self-mocking thing. It twisted Jaskier's already tormented heart to hear it.

"I can't believe," she murmured, voice amused and wondering, "I ever thought you looked at me and actually saw me."

The witcher opened his mouth, but the mage raised a hand to cut him off. "Save it, Geralt. I'm not interested."

"And I'm not asking for permission," she continued. "I'm telling you. The bard's coming with us. And if you're concerned about what that means for us as a group, don't be. He's my responsibility, and mine alone. I will not trouble you or Cirilla with him."

"Are you done with breakfast, bardling?" she asked, causing Jaskier's head to jerk up to meet her eyes.

Throat tight, Jaskier could do nothing but nod at the violet-eyed sorceress.

"Then come," she ordered. "We'll wait for them in the courtyard."

Nodding once more, he stood. As he moved to clear the cutlery, Cirilla cut him off.

"Don't worry about it," she said, watching him with a strange expression. "I can take it to the kitchens with my stuff."

"Thank you, Princess," Jaskier replied after a moment. He bowed slightly, then made to move to Yennefer's side.

"Jaskier—" tried Geralt, but the bard simply walked right past, letting his hair curtain his face and keeping his gaze on the witch.

Yennefer spared Geralt a glance, but said nothing more, only turning to stride out of the hall.

The two of them walked in silence as they made their way to the courtyard.

When they stepped out, Jaskier had to raise his hand to shield his eyes against the bright morning sun, reflecting off the snow that dusted the floor. A shudder ran through him, the cold of the outdoors quickly seeping through the coat he wore. Still, the warmth of the sun's rays made the chill more bearable, and he closed his eyes and tipped his head back to enjoy the sensation.

Then spluttered as a heavy cloth was tossed over his head. Fighting his way out of it, he gathered the fabric in an untidy bundle and blinked in the light, eyes watering as they alighted on his assailant. Yennefer grinned back at him impishly from beside two horses: the black one Geralt had obtained from the dwarves, and a seal brown one. The mounts were weighed down by packed saddlebags, and two rucksacks laid at the mage's feet.

"Is there a reason," Jaskier groused, "that you decided you would rather smother me so early in the morning?"

"It's hardly early, bardling," Yennefer snorted. "Besides, I didn't need you freezing to death before we even managed to escape the keep since you clearly lack the proper wear."

"Oh..." Jaskier unfolded the bundle to discover what he had was a heavy clock, trimmed with dark fur along the inner edges and hood. "OH..."

He threw it over himself and discovered that it was wonderfully comfortable. "Many thanks, wife mine."

Yennefer hummed, pleased. Then her expression grew serious. "I owe you an apology."

Jaskier gasped theatrically. "An apology?! Are you ok, wife?! Is something the matter?! Are you dying?!"

He raced over and began to exaggeratedly fuss over the sorceress, earning himself a harsh smack on the shoulder and a roll of her eyes. He painted a wounded look on his face, causing her to pinch his cheek and pull. After watching him flail for a few moments, Yennefer deemed him sufficiently punished and let go to adjust the reins of the brown horse.

"I should have informed Geralt before he came to collect Cirilla," she said, steadily facing away from him. "I put you in an uncomfortable position, one which you had told me yesterday night you would rather avoid."

Jaskier huffed. Then stepped closer to press his arm against hers.

"Yennefer, it would have happened anyway, whether you informed him earlier or not. Geralt doesn't change his mind once he's decided on something, unless there are truly exceptional circumstances. I would know. He spent over a decade avoiding any mention of his Child Surprise and only came for her once Nilfgaard was knocking at Cintra's doors."

"Geralt’s reactions to my presence are not your fault to bear," he said quietly and shrugged. "Besides, it's not the worst he's said. At least this time, the faults he mentioned are indeed mine."

Yennefer opened her mouth, though the arrival of Geralt and Cirilla made her close it again. But from the intent glance she shot him, Jaskier was made well aware that the topic was not closed yet.

Geralt helped the girl onto the black steed, and picked up one of the rucksacks to swing it onto his shoulders. His silver sword was strapped onto the horse, while the steel hung at his hip instead of across his back like it usually did. He stared at Jaskier and Yennefer.

Jaskier looked at the mage and dipped into a sweeping bow. "Age before beauty, m'lady."

"Such a shame for you that I am both then, isn't it," Yennefer shot back before swinging herself onto the other horse.

Jaskier opened and closed his mouth a couple of times. "Yeah, alright, you've got me there," he finally said resignedly.

She watched him out of the corner of her eyes as he carefully swung the other rucksack onto his shoulders, avoiding touching it with his hands. When it was settled comfortably on his shoulders, she turned her gaze to Geralt.

"Shall we go?" she asked cooly.

"Hmmm," was all Geralt said in reply, before turning and leading—well, Roach, Jaskier supposed—onto the path down the mountain.

The day passed by mostly in silence as they trekked down the mountain, stopping only for lunch and other bodily needs.

Geralt and Cirilla led the front while Jaskier and Yennefer followed a few metres behind. And while it wasn't unusual for Jaskier to trail behind Geralt at some distance, the lack of his lute made it all the more conspicuous just how different these circumstances were. He often found himself unconsciously reaching for it, only to recall where he was and dropping his hand.

With Geralt's enhanced hearing, there was also not much he could talk about with Yennefer, considering he wanted to keep his more dangerous experiences on the down-low and he had no clue of how much Geralt knew of what was going on with the sorceress.

It made lunch all the more awkward as no one was open to conversation about anything beyond what was required for the meal. Even Cirilla was incredibly silent for a teenager, only watching the three adults with that same strange look on her face she had during the argument at breakfast. Jaskier wasn't sure he wanted to know what that was about either.

And so Yennefer bore the repetition of him reaching for his non-existent lute, sighing, humming, sighing, throughout the morning and well into the afternoon past lunch with no more than the occasional glance his way, until even she'd had enough.

"So, bardling," she began, "what else had you been up to apart from your... piping business?"

Jaskier couldn't help but raise an eyebrow at the non-sequitur, but being bored out of his mind and grateful for conversation, decided to play along.

"Not much really," he replied. "I took up a year-long teaching contract at the Academy as a visiting Professor. Then I did my rounds along the taverns at Oxenfurt and Novigrad with my students to give them some experience in a controlled environment as well as a court debut or two of theirs."

She grinned at him. "Gods, I remember when I was a student, they must have been a bunch of little shits! And taken right after you too!"

Jaskier barked a laugh. "Oh Sweet Melitele, they were! An adorable bunch of ducklings following me around with their starry-eyed enthusiasm, but by gods, they were absolute menaces! Do you know how often I had to bail them out of trouble? I'm supposed to be the damsel-in-distress, not the responsible one! I have much sympathy for my Professors now, I earned many grey hairs from all the stress."

"Really?" she teased him. "Have you by chance grown colour-blind in your old age, bardling?"

Jaskier leaned in close and stage-whispered back, "I had to pluck them all out, I was surprised I had any hair left on my head after that! I'm just lucky it grew back!"

She laughed. It was a gorgeous sound that made his heart soar. And her smile, sweet Melitele, Jaskier could see why Geralt had fallen heads-over-heels for her if she'd smiled like that at him even once!

Jaskier forced himself to drag his eyes away and tried to coax his shattered heart back into his chest. It never learnt, even after 20 years of continuous heartbreak at the hands of a witcher. So eager to throw itself at the next impossible love. What would a sorceress of her calibre, with anything and anyone she could have, want with a human bard?

"Tell me about them," Yennefer's voice interrupted his thoughts. "What sort of mischief do tiny bardlings get up to? Can't be any worse than Aretuza's trainees."

"Ho ho!" he cried. "You'd be surprised, witch. These menaces of mine rivalled the sort of trouble my friends and I used to get caught up in when we were students! Let me tell you about the time Alicja..."

Jaskier spoke at length about the bardic aspirants he'd taken under his wing, about the mischief they got up to, the hilarious mishaps they'd made, the silly jokes and pranks that filled his class. He gesticulated wildly, acted out some of the funniest moments, did silly voices, sang, pranced around and in front of the sorceress' steed as Yennefer laughed and jibbed back and egged him on to tell her more and more.

It was like flying, like leaping off a cliff into the sea, like dancing on stage in front of an exhilarated audience, like the rush of pulling off a successful trick with his drunk friends. Nothing in the world existed other than the delight of Yennefer's grins, her laughs, her amusement, her joy.

On occasion, he even managed to wheedle out some stories from her.

"I can't believe it!" he gasped, shoulders shaking with laughter. "You actually got the kids high during class?! And you all got caught by the rectoress?!"

Yennefer's violet eyes sparkled with mirth. "Tissaia was so pissed," she said around a satisfied smirk, lounging on her horse like the cat that got the cream. "She lectured me at length about corrupting the youth—nevermind that I hadn't been her student for decades for that to do anything—and no doubt the trainees spent a long while paying for that stunt. But it was totally worth it to see the look on her face."

Jaskier shook his head and wiped at his eyes. "Those poor kids," he said in mock despair. "Having to pay for your prank on them."

Yennefer simply shrugged, unrepentant. "It'll teach them to be more discerning about who they listen to, and what people may convince them to do at least."

"Ah yes, the treachery of court politics..." Jaskier sighed.

"We'll make camp here for the night," Geralt's voice cut in.

Jaskier nearly jumped out of his skin at the sound; much, much closer than he thought it'd be. It was then he realised that he and Yennefer had somehow ended up right behind Roach without realising. He had absolutely no recollection of when they'd sped up enough to end up that close.

"Ah, yes, sure," Jaskier stammered out, caught off-guard.

The preparations for setting up camp this time were as equally silent as that during lunch, the only difference being the tents set up for the night. Geralt and Cirilla were working together to set up a tent they'd brought from Kaer Morhen, Jaskier leaving to go search for firewood, while Yennefer set up hers with a tiny application of Chaos to an amulet.

Arriving back at camp, the white fabric of the mage's tent had Jaskier's breath catching in his throat and a sting of sadness, hurt, and shame lodging in his chest as memories of the dragon hunt—the day he'd lost the person he'd cared about most—hit him and sent him reeling backwards.

"Jaskier, is something wrong?"

He was yanked back to the present and forced his racing heart to slow.

Geralt watched him warily, a debate playing out in golden eyes whether to come closer or stay away. Cirilla and Yennefer were also watching him: the Princess trying and failing to hide her curiosity while something that looked like guilt or discomfort was quickly wiped away from the mage's face.

"Everything's fine," Jaskier replied, pasting a smile on his face. "Just had an unpleasant thought. Nothing to worry about."

He didn't want to know which option would win out in Geralt's thoughts. And it was hardly fair to keep making Yennefer feel responsible for Geralt's shitty decisions. Truth of the matter was, she was the only one on his side. She shouldn’t have to take the burden of his feelings onto herself out of some strange, misguided sense of guilt. It wasn’t her fault that he'd been in love with her partner for years.

No, that fault lay on Jaskier, and Jaskier alone. He was the one choosing to twist the knife in himself, year after year. He just wished some day he would manage to stop.

Dinner once again was a silent affair once they'd gotten over Jaskier's brief hangup.

Jaskier and Yennefer sat on one side of the fire, Geralt and Cirilla on the other. The only thing that managed to keep him in place was the warm line of Yennefer's weight against his side, a steady reassurance that no harm would come to him, not when she was there to put herself between him and anything that could harm him.

For once, the flickering flames in the night did not remind him of the snapping fingers and endless pain.

No, it reminded him of his brilliant wife.

The flare of panic as she stumbled into the inn with only a bottle of liquor, the brief tingling press of her lips against his head, the fiery blaze she spat out at his torturer, the searing brand of her grip as she dragged him out of his hell-hole.

Yennefer was the wildfire that torched Sodden Hill, the torrent of flame that blinded his tormentor. She was passion, rage, protectiveness. She burned as bright as the sun itself, with or without Chaos running through her veins. She was incandescent.

What threat did the burning branches in front of him pose? What could a measly campfire do to him?

Nothing.

Nothing at all.

It was nothing compared to the living blaze beside him.

There was no safer place for him than by her side.

A huffed laugh sounded beside him, and he felt more than saw Yennefer turn her head towards him.

"You're thinking very loudly," she murmured.

The warmth of her breath hit his neck and sent goosebumps breaking out over his skin.

Jaskier couldn't conceal the minute shiver that ran through him. He turned to face her.

She was watching him with an amused yet fond look, much like the one she wore when they'd bantered after meeting in Oxenfurt. The play of firelight against the violet jewels of her eyes was mesmerising. He couldn't help the upward tilt of his lips in response.

"Nothing that isn't true, witch," he breathed out.

A loud yawn interrupted any further conversation as all of the adults' eyes fell on the Princess. She flushed under all their gazes.

"What? It's been a long day," she said defensively.

A soft smile played at Yennefer's mouth.

"It has," she agreed, then stood up. "Time for us to retire I think."

Jaskier too rose to his feet.

"Jaskier, you—" Geralt began.

"—are sharing with me," Yennefer completed smoothly, wrapping her hand around Jaskier's arm possessively. She then smiled at Cirilla. "Sleep well tonight, Ciri."

Jaskier tipped his head and did the same. "Pleasant dreams, Princess."

Cirilla's eyes darted from adult to adult.

"Thanks," she finally replied awkwardly. "You and Lady Yennefer too."

With that, Yennefer led the two of them to her tent, not bothering to wait and see if Geralt would exchange similar pleasantries. As the door flap fell shut behind them, the tension that had instinctively formed within them when Geralt had begun to speak drained out.

They both stood there for a moment in silence.

"Well, it's been long enough for us to take a look at your hands now," the sorceress finally spoke, letting her hand fall away from Jaskier as she strode deeper into the space. "Depending on how they look we'll need to adjust the potency and frequency of the mixtures so do take the seat over—Jaskier?"

Jaskier finally picked his jaw off the floor.

"Yennefer, this is a marvel!" he breathed, unable to take his eyes off the contents of the space. "How is it so much bigger on the inside? Is everything stored as it is? How come the magic isn't traceable?"

He pulled his gaze away from the furniture and fixtures in the tent to find the mage watching him with a fondly amused tilt to her mouth.

"I forget," she said, "that sometimes things I use or do without thought can be wonderous occurances to be admired in the eyes of others not used to Chaos."

He didn't know what to say to that, although Yennefer did not seem to be looking for a reply. The mage had turned around to locate the two tins from the night before, unearthing them from a chest at the foot of the vanity table and placing them on the tabletop. She then kicked out the chair and gestured for him to come over.

Jaskier found his legs automatically bringing him to her before his brain had even registered the intent of the action. He sat down hard on the chair and fiddled with his gloves.

Yennefer perchered herself on the table, then calmly seized his hands one-by-one to pull off the gloves and place them aside. Then carefully began to unwind the bandages.

Jaskier could not help but look away, unwilling to face his damaged hands and more than that, the pain that would soon follow as Yennefer began the lengthy process of healing them.

"Seems like this version is working decently," came the mage's voice. "Not as much as I hoped, but still better than expected."

She placed his hands on the table and walked over to a curtained off portion of the tent. Jaskier steeled himself, then stole a glance at his hands. The cream paste that had been applied on them had turned a light shade of grey, with pitch-black lines snaking through them and patches of equally dark spots on the more injured areas. His stomach turned.

Yennefer came back over with a bowl of warm water and a fresh damp cloth.

"Wash most of the paste off with this, bardling," she ordered, placing the bowl in front of him. "I'll wipe the rest off."

Jaskier could only give her a sharp jerky nod, then set his jaw and dipped his hands in. Submerging them in the water, he gently rubbed as much of the paste off with his fingers, hissing through gritted teeth whenever he agitated an injury. The clear water soon turned a murky grey.

When she deemed his hands washed enough, Yennefer drew them into her own one-by-one to wipe the abused flesh clean with the cloth. Under her brisk yet tender ministrations, interspersed by more hisses and groans, the extent of the burns were once more revealed.

Jaskier was careful not to look.

Yennefer pried open the tin containing the second balm—a gel-like transparent thing—and scooped some up with two fingers, then began to smear it liberally onto his skin. Jaskier hissed a long breath through his teeth, the burns stinging as the balm was applied, even through the analgesic from before. Once both of his hands were thoroughly coated, Yennefer looked him in the eye.

"This is the part where things are going to get painful, bardling," she said. "I'm going to use my magic to subtly pull out whatever loosened and surfaced Chaos is there, using the balm as a conduit. But it is guaranteed to resist active removal, so you'll be feeling some amount of pain."

"Right, right..." Jaskier exhaled, voice wavering ever so slightly. "And there's nothing you can do for it?"

"Nothing that won't interfere with the rest of the process," Yennefer told him, sympathy briefly passing across her face.

"Right, ok..." Jaskier breathed in and out deeply a few times. Then set his jaw and stared at a point over her shoulder. "I'm ready."

Yennefer began to murmur in Elder, one hand hovering over Jaskier's, Chaos sparking in the cup of her palm, while the other cradled it from below, slender fingers wrapped tightly around his wrist.

Then his skin began to burn.

A strangled yell forced its way out of his closed mouth as he doubled-over his hand. His fingers spasmed and trembled, splayed out as they were from the pain, and he couldn't help but try to yank his hand backwards to escape it. Yennefer proved stronger however, and he remained pinned in place even as he writhed and wailed in his seat.

Out of the corner of his watering eyes, he noticed black strands twining their way through the clear gel, being pulled out of his skin like threads spun out of flesh. His stomach violently protested the realisation joining the pain and he only managed to choke out, "I'm gonna hurl", before he was spilling his guts onto the floor beside him in choking, gasping heaves.

Undeterred, Yennefer kept going.

By the time the pain finally began to die down, there was nothing left in his stomach to expel. Saliva and bile dripped out of his open mouth as he struggled to get his breathing back under control even as his stomach still roiled. Through the prickling agony in his hand, he barely felt the sorceress pass a cloth over his palm to wipe the gel off.

There was the sound of another tin popping open, and a paste was smoothed over his inflamed skin, and the hurt slowly began to ebb away. For a while, the only sound in the room was the loud heaving breaths Jaskier sucked in as Yennefer rubbed soothing circles on his back.

Finally, Jaskier shuddered, then pulled himself back up. "We should do the other hand soon."

"Yes," the sorceress replied, her hand a warm weight through the fabric of his sweat-soaked shirt. "The sooner it's done, the sooner it's over."

Jaskier sucked in a few more deep breaths, trying to steady his breathing and pulse rate. He flexed his treated hand where it lay in his lap, the white paste from last night coating it and drawing out the lingering pain. Then placed his other hand in Yennefer's waiting one.

Yennefer spared no moment for him to change his mind.

And so Jaskier screamed long and loud, the sound echoing around them as it writhed in the air, caught within the flimsy walls of the tent, trapped with nowhere else to go.

By the time the gel was wiped away and the paste applied, he was nearly catatonic from pain, only the barest whimpers creeping out his open mouth.

"Bardling, bardling, can you hear me?"

Yennefer's voice came from far away, lilting and drifting as if through water.

"Jaskier. Jaskier, I need you to respond!"

The bard's fingers twitched. His eyes struggled to refocus as the thinly-veiled panic in the voice latched onto his attention and pulled.

"Jaskier!"

A wheezing rattle filled the air as Jaskier forced air into his lungs. He tipped his head towards the ceiling from where his cheek rested on the cool tabletop and locked his gaze with violet eyes.

"Yen..." he rasped.

"Thank fuck," the mage exhaled, the tension in her frame slowly drawn out like thread spun from wool. "Jaskier..."

"I'm not sure... if I can take... much more of that..." Jaskier struggled to breath out, voice as if he'd been gargling shards of glass. From the faintly metallic taste at the back of his throat, he was certain he'd done some damage to it at least.

Yennefer placed a cool damp cloth over his forehead and began winding bandages around his hands.

"That was the worst of it, bardling," she murmured reassuringly. "It’ll get easier from now on. We got lucky that a good chunk of Chaos remained surface-level and more had been loosened up by the paste. It might be possible to pull everything out in under 2 weeks and properly heal your hands after."

Jaskier managed a nod of acknowledgement. "You didn't… overexert… yourself, right, Yen?"

The sorceress snorted, the sound amused and contemptuous. "Not in the least, bardling. Worry about yourself."

She tied the bandages off in the same bows from yesterday, causing Jaskier's lips to stretch into a trembling smile. Done with his hands, the mage dragged the cloth from down his forehead to gently wipe off the sweat and dirt on his face and neck. Then waved a hand to summon clothes which she proceeded to dump on Jaskier's lap.

"Get changed, husband," she ordered, spinning off to stride somewhere else in the tent. "This day has dragged on long enough already and I don't doubt that Geralt will force us to march on before the sun finishes rising."

Jaskier groaned at the very thought, his body already feeling like one massive slab of tenderised meat. Then pushed himself upright to wiggle himself out of his old clothes and into the new ones from his perch on the chair, underclothes included. 

A sigh escaped him as he sank back against the chair once he was finished. It was a relief to get out of the sweat-drenched clothing. Frankly, he was in desperate need of a proper wash, but the toil of the day with an added dose of torturous treatment had him unwilling to move a single centimeter towards that goal.

And despite their rather spontaneous-and-willing-yet-definitely-not-legal marriage, he and Yen were not quite there yet in their relationship for her to bathe him.

He brought one of the two tankards of water she’d left for him to his lips with shaking hands, rinsing his mouth out and adding to the mess on the floor with one, then drinking deeply from the other. A brief smile pulled at his lips when he noticed the spoonful of honey she’d also placed out to soothe the burning in his throat.

The tingle of Chaos as it washed over him and erased the filth and smell of the place and from him was hardly noticed.

Even as his eyes began to slowly slide shut, Jaskier couldn't help but rub his shaking, bandaged fingertips over the soft cloth of his new outfit admiringly. The cream shirt and brown pants were simple and clearly meant for someone with a broader stature than himself. Yet the material was comfortably worn-in, butter-soft from repeated use and wash, lying as gently and lightly against his skin as the finest silk.

The repetition of the action soothed him, and his eyelids finally fluttered closed.

"Time for bed, bardling," came Yennefer's voice from beside him, settling over him like the soft fall of shadows from candlelight. "Don't fall asleep on me just yet."

Jaskier simply hummed, and automatically leaned into her side, face-planting into the soft silk of her nightgown over her stomach. Yennefer huffed, then slid an arm around him to pull him to his feet. A discontent noise escaped him at the motion, and the sorceress laughed softly, catching him as he swayed into her and buried his face in her hair. She had a lot of hair, that woman.

He followed blindly as she steered them towards the bed and tumbled the two of them onto it, their limbs flopping about wildly. With another amused huff that Jaskier hid a smile to, he remained loose and pliant as the mage rearranged them to her liking. Once she was satisfied with the way the pair of them were wrapped around one another, he felt her raise a hand and the light seeping past his eyelids winked out.

Jaskier shuffled the tiniest bit closer to her, face resting in the hollow of her throat and the scent of lilacs and gooseberries settling around him like the blanket she'd covered them with. Then with the barest whisper of a sigh against her skin, drifted to sleep in her arms.

Yennefer was finishing rimming her lids with a stick of pitch-black kohl, drawing fearsome tips to the sweeping raven wings extending past the corners of her eyes.

Satisfied with the look, she dropped the stick onto the table-top carelessly, then rummaged through her stacks of tiny containers. She opened some of them up, either placing them onto the miniscule empty space in front of her or closing and discarding them with an annoyed huff.

When she'd located all that she had been searching for, she picked up a small brush and dipped it into one of the two containers she had in front of her, tapped it against the edge of the tin, and then began to apply the powder.

Ciri watched as black shimmer began to smudge over Yennefer's eyelids, the sorceress deftly twisting the brush and layering the powder to obtain the shape and opacity she desired.

Once she had applied the black to both eyes, she dipped another similarly sized brush into the other container, and began to apply that to her eyelids too.

Dark purple was lightly dusted over the layer of black, the specks making the look pop while still drawing attention to Yennefer's brilliant violet gaze.

Pleased with the result, Yennefer put down the brush, capped the containers and picked up her comb. She drew it furiously over her wild raven mane, the curls bouncing with volume as she combed it, the scent of lilac and gooseberries filling the space.

Then her gaze met Ciri's in the mirror.

Ciri immediately ducked her head and pretended to read her book.

'Will I ever look as beautiful as Lady Yennefer someday?' she wondered.

"You can put the book away, Ciri. We both know you're not reading it."

Ciri guiltily set the book down on the bed and gave the mage a sheepish grin. Her eyes drifted back to the cosmetics the sorceress had applied, that only made her magnificent beauty all the more alluring.

Yennefer put away her comb and then rose from her seat.

"Come," she said. "I'll help you put some on."

"Lady Yennefer, really?!"

"Yes, really," she replied with no small amount of amusement. "Now come, my ugly one."

Ciri scrambled over eagerly, then found herself feeling very self-conscious as she sat on the seat the sorceress had vacated. She was incredibly untidy and unkempt compared to her teacher.

Yennefer's fingers carded through flaxen hair.

"You're still a child, growing and playing and learning. A bit of dirt and untidiness is not unexpected."

She then tipped Ciri's chin up to look her in the eye through the mirror.

"Tell you what," she said. "You close your eyes and face me. And then once I'm done, you can see your transformation in the mirror."

Ciri thought about it for a few moments, nodded decisively, then closed her eyes and turned around.

"Good," she heard the sorceress say.

Then the preening began.

Combing, washing, scrubbing, painting, drawing; Ciri was primped until she was certain she looked nothing alike herself.

By the time the clatter of brushes and containers finally ceased, Ciri's heart was in her throat, nerves and excitement warring within her stomach like snakes locked in battle.

She felt hands settle on her shoulders and gently spin her back around to face the mirror.

"You can look now," said Yennefer.

Ciri's eyes remained tightly shut.

'But what if even Lady Yennefer's techniques cannot make me pretty?' she thought wildly. 'What if after all this I'm the same ugly girl?'

"Come now, Ciri," came Yennefer's voice. "I didn't go through all that trouble for you not to see yourself."

And so Ciri took a deep breath, mustered up her courage, and finally opened her eyes.

"There you are," said Yennefer, her full, painted lips quirked up. "My pretty little ugly one."

Ciri drank in the sight of the both of them in the mirror.

Yennefer had done her hair in a neat braid that draped casually over one shoulder, wisps of ash-blonde hair left deliberately hanging loose by her temples.

And Ciri's eyes...

They were rimmed with dark streaks of kohl, with winged tips at the edges as sharp as dagger points. Her lids were delicately powdered with shimmery black dust containing dark green highlights, drawing attention to and accentuating the jewel-green tones of her irises.

A pale pink rouge dusted the apples of her cheeks, livening up her pale complexion, while a dark red paint had been applied to tint her lips, drawing attention to the soft pout of her mouth.

She looked beautiful, powerful, dangerous.

She looked like Lady Yennefer.

Ciri was filled with an abrupt rush of something light and effervescent, an emotion she could not identify, though it pulled at her lips and tugged at her heart.

Until she finally could.

'I love you,' she thought. 'Can you hear me, Lady Yennefer? I love you. I love you.'

Yennefer just looked down at Ciri, smoothed a hand over her head, and smiled.

She let out a sob. Little Horse whickered and used his muzzle to push at her back, urging her to get up and carry on, ever careful of his horn.

"I can't, Little Horse," she whimpered, voice barely audible. "I can't. I'm so tired. And it hurts so much."

Little Horse refused to take that for an answer, stomping his hooves and nudging her insistently. Ciri let out another sob, eyes heating up but refusing to shed a single drop. There was no water in her body to spare. Not with the spring they'd left behind over 2 days' march away.

The bitter cold threatened to freeze her pained, weak, and numb body stiff.

"Maybe we can just wait here," she whispered, cheek pressed into the frigid sand. Fine grains stuck to her face and neck wherever they cushioned her, soft as silk and hard as rock at once.

"Lady Yennefer will come," she told Little Horse, her voice barely a whisper of breath. "She'll find us, you'll see. She'll come for me. There's no way she won't, not unless—"

Her breath caught in her lungs. She remembered looking back at the top of the stairs, before she'd run down as instructed. The image of the mage's back as she rested her head against a column as clear as a painting in her mind.

And her parting words.

"I love you, my daughter."

"No..." she whimpered, realisation a blade's cold kiss to her heart. "No! She can't be dead! She can't be!"

Little Horse only looked at her with his soulful eyes.

"No!" she wailed. "Mama! Mama!"

"Mama, it hurts! Mama! Mama, where are you?! WHERE ARE YOU, MAMA?!"

Her cry rang out through the desert, but only the biting wind answered her.