What was war?
Jaskier walked through Brugge streets. It was a small town across the Yaruga river, only a few miles away from Vizima. They all knew even a river as vast as Yaruga could only hold so much. It was fall, only three months left for the cold winter days, when the river would freeze, making a solid ground for the Nilfgaardian army to march forth and conquer Temeria and Redenia next.
What was war?
He tried not to stare at the peasants begging for food and for a place to spend the night in. But to no avail. War wasn't poetic, yet his mind wouldn't stop composing, his hands wouldn't stop writing. Bard or not, he was a scholar as well and if destiny was to drag his arse back to Oxenfurt like this then he would write to at least have something of those horrifying days, may it not be in rhythm then in prose. This was to be history, this was to show the real face of war.
Poverty. Famine. Sickness and death.
What was war?
Jaskier pondered.
It was a three-lettered word that could obliterate everything. Tearing lands, nations and race apart. Victims were constantly drowned in tidal waves of guilt, regret and pain. And pain wasn't simple. It wasn't only physical. Physical wounds could heal, emotional, and mental once however, stayed. For days, weeks, months, years… or perhaps forever.
He wasn't feeling particularly fine walking down those streets. His clothes were dirty and unwashed for days, they smelled of sweat and smoke. His head felt heavy, and he was terribly dizzy probably because of the empty stomach and lack of proper sleep. The last he had an almost decent stew was the day before yesterday. In sum, he felt like shit, he probably looked the part as well, might as well find a place to stay in before his legs give out and he finds himself sprawling in the mud once again.
At midday instead of the usual hustle and bustle he expected from the town, Jaskier noticed the eerie silence. Not a chicken clucked or scratched at the dusty earth, nor were any goats bleating nearby. No women were cooking outside their homes, nor could a sign of a crooking fire be seen.
Children, instead of playing, shouting, singing or laughing lay lifelessly on their mothers' laps or alone, leaning against the cold walls. Hollow cheeks and thin arms. Panting. Vomiting. Sleeping. Seemingly sleeping. Something was in the air. The chickens and frisky goats were gone, either eaten, stolen or sold months before. There was no food to be cooked. The children were too weak to be playing or singing.
Jaskier's stomach churned at the sight. He could tell, from the coughs, from the constant scratches of their skins, from the rashes on their faces and necks, arms and legs. Something far worse than war itself had haunted this town.
The sun was too warm for fall, too direct and he sweated profoundly as he staggered in the shades next to a man, who wearing a large hat was busy weaving a basket.
"My good sir," he panted, his voice a higher pitch than usual, " is there an inn nearby?"
The man looked incredulously at him, not answering for a while as he looked him up and down, then he frowned "You was one of the lots on that ferry, eh?" Jaskier's throat was too dry to answer, he just nodded in response and the man shouted, "Escaping the war you whoresons! As if we're not fighting off a disease, dying of hunger here!"
A fit of violent coughing accompanied the man's shouts and Jaskier marked the rashes on his skin, taking a step back, wandering off. "Thank you for your humble welcoming, really appreciated the gesture," he uttered sarcastically. Getting sick now was cherry on top of all his problems. He was as miserable as it was. Deciding to find a place on his own, Jaskier started walking, keeping a good distance from every passenger, pulling the hem of his shirt up to cover his mouth and nose as he stumbled upon a building which the sign Blossoms suggested it was definitely an inn.
"Hello, ma'am." He said as he walked in, his usual giddy tone long gone, he was too tired, practically dragging his feet to the counter where not-so-much friendly-looking middle-aged woman stared at him, " Help your compatriot here. We have been across the river not a few days ago, Cintra and Sodden have fallen. And I know that I might look like a beggar who does not have any coin on them but I can assure you that I am a very well-respected bard and I can sing—"
"A bard, eh?" The woman interrupted him, placing her hands on her hips. " We had one here recently. Claimed the same, wasn't much of a help either."
His head was swirling, "Another bard, you said?"
"Yes, you don't see many of them in this town, she was traveling from Vizima, said she was headed to Cintra to visit a friend. Got sick right after she arrived, fell on the floor during a performance. It was a shame really."
"She?" Jaskier racked his brain. " A female bard from Vizima."
"You look like horse shit yourself—"
"Well…" He looked up then, managing to offer a crooked smile at the barwoman. " Ah, not exactly the expression ladies use when they describe me but yeah…apparently not eating a hot meal for days and not bathing tend to leave their marks on you. Besides the war's spreading fast."
"Not very inspiring for your ballads, I gather." The woman spat on the counter and then moved to clean the spot with a piece of fabric." Now the disease is faster if I hadn't had kept the inn clean of pests… " She looked at Jaskier as if he was indeed a pest, " Me and me family would have gotten it faster. And what if the war took over Cintra? the fuckers. No one cares about that stuck-up bitch on the throne. Better than alive if you ask me. "
Jaskier's brow furrowed. It seemed no one was willing to help him here. His thoughts diverted back to the bard the woman was talking about. She sounded awfully familiar, still, Jaskier just had to make sure. "Change of the subject please, at least tell me about the she-bard, what happened to her? where is she now?"
"The healer took her. Dead for all I care. Didn't even pay up her debt."
Shit. "You... happened to ask what her name was?"
"Eye something…"
"Wasn't it … perhaps…" He felt as if his heard skipped a beat. His head now clearly spinning. He already knew who it was and he wished he didn't " Oh by gods, I hope I'm wrong but didn't she introduce herself as Little-Eye."
"Aye, that's her name alright."
"It can't be." He turned, outside the inn it was too bright and the dizziness had gotten too strong. " By gods… what was Essi doing here? Uh…is there a way to find this healer you speak of?" He asked the woman.
"The old black house on the hill, you won't miss it."
He wasn't sure how and with the help of what magic running through his veins, he bolted out, breathing heavily and sweating, walking up the street to the north, looking for a black house. Looking for Essi.
A/N: Yeah okay for those who haven't read the books. Essi "Little-eye" is not an original character, in the book, she's also a bard and she's Jaskier's best friend.
Also in the book, Jaskier is writing this book of events, mostly related to the witcher, called half a century of poetry and so I thought perhaps he needs to record these awful days of the war as well.