A/N:Hey, it has been quite a while.
In my defense, I've been reading a lot in these months that apparently I was gone. I couldn't write for the life of me. I still can't. I don't know why. My mind doesn't seem to cooperate with my fingers. I can't get the words out. I have all these marvelous ideas just hanging there.

But then I've been reading the Witcher as well, and I am in love with Geralt and his annoying friend/bard Dandelion or as the Witcher Tv Show would like to call him, Jaskier. ( apparently, that's his polish name oh wonders!)

Anyway, the show is just... meh... not bad I guess, Henry Cavil is really good as Geralt and others like Yennifer and Ciri actors just grow on you in time. Joey Batey as Jaskier is doing a marvelous job, even though I find his character ( only the writing of it not really the performance) a little bit dumbed down. But who am I kidding everything is a little dumbed down on that show so... yeah... I still like the whole thing though. I am just that obsessive fangirl.

So I listened to the Amazing Devil band and I find this guy's voice really really amazing and I can't get it out of my head and I wrote this. And I may or may not continue this, depending on my mood and your response. ( we're currently in quarantine in my country because the damn Corona Virus and I have nothing else to do, except you know doing my university assignment and work... which I am not doing at all... anyway... ) what am saying.

On with the story.
Hope you like it

(Also sorry in advance for the weird expressions, my native language isn't English)

Sodden has fallen.

That much he knew, Nilfgaardians attacked and destroy like a deadly flood, condemning everyone and everything on their way to destruction and death. Ominous gray clouds covered the evening sky, the piercing sound of screams and shouts mixed with the neighing of the horses as people, innocent people, injured soldiers, men, women, children, some riding, some on foot, forced themselves out of their homes to the coast, the Yaruga river a destination, the barrier-to-be between them and the Nilfgaardians as they hacked and slashed without mercy.

On a cart, Jaskier sat clutching his lute and staring, panicking, his face white as a paper sheet. Yarpen Zigrin had warned them about the new lords attacking the northern lands. Jaskier had also heard from the innkeepers that it was bad, only that he didn't know that it was this bad. For all he was aware of from the locals and folks he was currently fleeing with, they had already taken over Cintra, murdering Queen Calanthe in cold blood. Doing horrible things with her dead body.

He was never a man for these sorts of situations. Blood alone terrified him to death, and even though years of traveling with Geralt must have at least toughened him up a little bit, as his father so much liked to put, his soft and delicate nature hasn't been altered, not even a little bit. The field of corpses, surrounding him was definitely not a side he wanted to look at for long. He felt sick to the stomach and although he had been either on a horse or in a cart for most of the journey, his feet felt weak and shaky, he had to keep the neck of his precious lute in his sweaty hands to keep them from trembling. Even Jaskier knew this was not just any war.

"The Nilfargaardians left nothing behind but scorched earth and death!" a peasant yelled in his ear, making him look at him in fright. The old man whose face and clothes were covered in dirt, dust and something brownish- hopefully not blood- spat, "They take no hostages, no one from Cintra survived. "

"No one?" He couldn't help but exclaim. The other peasants on the carts turned to look at him for the first time. " What about princess Cirilla then? she must have survived, anyone from the castle at all?"

"None of those who defended the keep survived son."

No. He could not believe it. What will happen to Geralt then? He must have had come back to Cintra, to look for Ciri. The Child Surprise. Even though he did not want to think about the unfair bastard after the incident on the mountain, he couldn't keep his breathing even, thinking about what might happen to him now that all hope has lost. Does he know about this? He looked over his shoulder.

It was a graveyard. Dead bodies of men and horses everywhere, blood flowing on the green of grass and gray of the stones, flames soaring to the glooming sky.

"Nowhere to return now."

They camped near the river, mothers washing their children, bandaging the wounded. Those who had fled a long way, rest by the river. They said a ferry would soon cross them by the Yaruga River, they would be safe then. It was then when it truly dawned on him the gravity of the situation, looking at the mothers and wives, fathers and husbands who wept, some in silent, some agonizingly loud, screaming their loved ones names in the dark of night, begging for the mercy of the gods.

"War does not determine who is right, just who is left," Jaskier muttered, unconsciously strumming the strings of his lute, unable to peel his eyes off the disastrous reality, unfolding itself. Not that he was inexperienced in the real-life at all, at least not after more than a decade if not more traveling with the Witcher, but this war was certainly a first or at least the first time he was in the center of it all.

I can hear the cannons calling

As though across a dream

And I can smell the smoke of hell

In every stitch and seam

And like flowers, the bodies tumble

Around this muddied lot

I cannot hear them scream

'Forget me not.'

Jaskier stopped. For the first time unaware of the audience gathering around him and the small campfire near the tents. He looked at their faces, one by one, if it was an ordinary situation, he would have felt proud as a peacock, holding his head high, ready to show off what he was capable of and who he was but these people now, being forced to abandon their lands and homes, just like once elves had to as Filavandrel had said. He couldn't truly capture the elven king's word then but now, he understood. Jaskier understood and as much of a cynical bastard as he considered himself to be sometimes, he felt this sadness and sorrow clutching at his chest, looking at these war-torn lots.

He tapped on his lute, singing,

Your voice, it carries over

The hubbub and the hum

And it paints the sky and circles high

Like the beating of a drum

You will scream 'I won't forget you'

But I'll cover my cold ears

It cannot be a lie

If no-one hears.

Soon, his musical ears detected another voice, fade and soft but nonetheless beautiful.

Cos although you say good day to me

I know I don't belong

And although you hold my hand and say

'I love you', you are wrong.

Because love does not exist here

In this garden, there's no feeling

And you say the words so often

That I barely know the meaning

And when all the flowers are rotten

And all the cannons shot

I'll scream, but you won't hear

'Forget me not'

Couples clung onto one another, as the fair voice got more recognizable. Jaskier though couldn't spot the one who sang with him, looking between the crowds, who now cried in silence.

And in years to come, you'll wander

To the place up, on our hill

And then you'll cry to our painted sky

'I loved her then, I love her still'.

Now people sang together, and as they did, Jaskier couldn't help but to stand up and look more intently between them. Everybody sang and it was difficult to find the voice. He slightly felt ashamed of his untimely affectionate towards the unknown singer but he comforted himself by saying that he just wanted to know who the heavenly voice belonged to.

And you'll strew some sage and lilies ,

And roses where I rot

Of all the flowers you picked,

I knew you would forget

Forget-me-nots.

"The ferry is here!"

With the exclamation, the applauding crowd scattered, hurriedly gathering their things to finally leave the northern war-wrecked lands behind, for some time or for good, no one truly knew.

Jaskier hang the strap of his lute across his shoulder, following them, wondering about the angelic voice, all the more still looking behind his shoulder, thinking of Geralt and the child he destined to be with, praying although he did not believe in any god at all, praying nonetheless for the fate to be kind to them all.