***Short chapter to let you all know I'm alive. Yes, I'm working on this story. Class and work and family emergencies haven't been kind.***

Jaskier wasn't sure why he'd been left alone since being escorted back to Tildan's hut, and he wasn't about to look a gift horse in the mouth.

The whole of the village had been…well, jubilant following the public flogging of the monster. Whether they believed they'd beaten it into full submission, or it was just a natural high from the adrenaline of the act, there was no denying the joy and humor that suddenly pervaded the streets. He couldn't even pretend to be so happily affected, so he wasn't surprised by the lack of invitation to the gathering at the inn. Apparently they were heading to raise toasts to the deliverer of the punishment – Witch Hunter, he'd heard the term a few times – and that suited him just fine.

Because the way Tildan had looked at him after the beating made his skin crawl. It reminded him of the first time he'd been hauled into the dark cellar, how the shaman had looked at the monster. It reminded him of the time he'd watched a worker survey a snake in the gardens to determine if it was better to strike it down then or later, when it was warm and tired. It was calculating and cold and dangerous.

No, they had to leave. Now.

The fact that he didn't pause when adding the creature to his escape plan didn't surprise the deeper parts of him. He knew now, without a doubt, that there was no thrall between them. There was something else, and there was definitely something wrong, but whatever magic existed there wasn't what everyone thought. He'd suspected it even before the red-haired mirage had slipped through his dreams. Now, though, he knew.

There was no anger in the creature's face during its humiliating, painful assault. If he'd simply been a thrall, there would have been rage. There would have been unmasked anger at the fact that he wandered free and relatively hale while his 'master' had been chained and whipped. There wouldn't have been concern and care and not a small amount of relief. And there certainly wouldn't have been fondness and understanding. Jaskier was a master at reading the emotions and body language of those before him. Training or no, he had a natural aptitude for it. His ability was nearly empathic. He didn't doubt those skills now.

Shut into the hut, he moved quickly.

He tested the door first – not locked or barred. Then he moved to the crate of gear under the far table once more. His movements were slightly clumsy due to pain but no less hurried as he shoved most of the items into Roach's saddlebags he'd requested from the stable. Everything fit seamlessly, as he expected. There was even a slight bow in the outward edge of one that fit the rounding of his lute perfectly. He swallowed and stared at it for a moment as he rubbed his fingers over the smooth material. It would have taken dozens of rain showers over the leather, weakened and then dried to firmness by the sun, for such a modification to happen naturally.

How long had he travelled with the white-haired creature?

Swallowing back the unanswered question, he finished packing most of the gear and then carefully wrapped the Wolf's Head in a cloth without touching it. He pocketed that, determined to keep such an oddity safe, and then pulled a clutch of items from under the bed. There was a rapier – gifted to him by Med after his disastrous foray into the cellar by himself – and a dark cloak; this had been from Hather, who worried he was cold in the hut. Laying them both aside for the moment, he awkwardly pulled on the black and silver studded breastplate from the chest. It fit him terribly, and the broken plating pushed against his side. But he filled out the gaps less than its owner, so it didn't break or bruise his skin like it did on the creature. Strapping on the sword and swirling the cloak into place over everything, he quickly checked his gear. As the last piece of preparation, he slid the silver dagger with the engraved wolf into a notch on his belt. It fit perfectly.

Everything was sound.

He thought that most people would probably wait, at this point. Wait for the village to sink into their drinks, to see nothing but the bottom of their mugs and the tavern maiden with the next full jug. If he had the time, he would've done alike. Instead, he remembered the blood coating the creature's side, the gasping, struggling quality of its breaths, the dark strangeness of color and sensation that emanated from his shackles. And he knew he couldn't wait.

Slinging the heavy saddlebags over his shoulders, staggering briefly as he overbalanced with the expected surge of pain, Jaskier left the candles lit and the shutters pulled and slipped out of the hut.

It was a nerve-wracking walk to the stable, but he was accosted by none on his trek. Even the stable hand was somewhere within the tavern. The four mounts within were quiet and paid him little mind, save for the one he'd come for. Roach looked at him and chuffed softly, nudging the saddlebags and his chest with deep breaths. If he didn't know better, he'd say the mare was searching for the one whose scent more heavily permeated the gear. He soothed her gently with a few quick pats and let her snag a carrot from his flat hand to keep her occupied. He was quick but thorough as he raised her tack and secured it properly. The wispy memory of the creature doing the same before the strange healer-priestess made him grit his teeth in a tight smile.

If all went well, he would be able to ask about that odd event later.

Finished with Roach, he turned to the other three horses and hesitated, fingering his dagger. He had considered several ways of handling this particular problem on his way to the stable without success. Two of the horses seemed fleet, one mare and one stallion, and when the stallion shifted in place, he saw studs on one shoe. They were obviously trained horses, their gear fit for racing across mud and slick grass. He checked Roach's shoes quickly; hers were flat and heavy, made to support her and her rider on long, unending travels across mountains and through forests. She wouldn't outrun any pursuers. Killing the horses wasn't an option – they'd make too much noise.

"Hmm…what to do with you, my friends," he murmured quietly, and he stroked Roach's mane mindlessly. Then he glanced at the third beast in the stable. It was an old mule, and there was grey in its brown mane and lightly sunken pits over its dark eyes. An old wound on its side had been scarred over for so long that it had turned white and its coat had grown nearly to cover it. "But you've seen better days, haven't you?" Jaskier asked rhetorically.

Minutes later, he'd snugged some borrowed chains around the necks of the three mounts, securing them all together and in place with an open lock he'd found. He suffered only a shallow bite from the stallion when he came too close to its face. Next to the lock was a set of keys that seemed to match; he dropped them into the feed bag closest to the door. He was fairly certain that would at least slow down anyone coming after them.

"Sorry, but it's better than dying chasing us," he whispered as he turned back to Roach. She was nibbling at the last crumbles of her carrot from the ground, and her ears twitched at his approach. Grabbing the reins under her head, he carefully edged out of the hut, his head on a swivel, certain that someone would be leaving the tavern at the very moment he hit the road.

No one did.

The sounds from within the building were loud and merry, and he felt his nose wrinkle in disgust. But his steps were quick and light as he hurried towards the main gate. Above him, he saw the massive deer head still in place, its hollowed eyes seeming to follow him. The velvet upon its rack seemed just as wet as the last time he'd noted it, and he shied away from the dripping blood. A few meters outside the gate was a signpost, 'Ursten' writ large on one flat board, and 'Lucian's Mill' painted on an angled board pointed north. Tethering the mare to the post with a slipknot, he patted her on the cheek gently.

"Please…please wait for us," he begged softly, and she mouthed his cloak without teeth.

Steeling himself, Jaskier turned back to the path and forced his feet to move forward.

He'd no intention of leaving the creature. None. But there was a weight upon him that had faded the moment he passed out of the town proper. It took effort to force himself back through the gates, back into the dead gaze of the mounted deer. The crush against his heart seemed to return in double when his feet hit the stone road, and he sucked in a breath through his teeth. His feet were faithful to his purpose, though, and he moved silently up the road.

The bard hadn't quite figured out the best way to release the creature – or even exactly how he was supposed to escape with his current limitations – and he felt sweat trickle down the edges of his sideburns. Something inside of his chest was twisting and tugging hard at him as he strode quickly through the darkness. The concept of leaving the monster was both appealing and dismaying, making something behind his lungs buck and twist like a living, breathing thing. The pull to the town was like rolling in a roaring river: what was up, what was down, confusion and light and dark ruling all. It made his palms itch and he squeezed his hands into tight fists, fighting down the feeling.

No, he didn't owe the monster. He didn't know it. He didn't deserve the fear and pain and tumbling roar of uncertainty within him. He had done nothing to earn such a poor blessing.

But words he'd thought hadn't registered in his mind abruptly surged to the forefront, bringing him to a quick and graceless halt.

In the cellar, when that wave of agony had surged and crested over him, in between his gasping breaths and the smack of stone on flesh, there were words, words spoken in a tone unlike anything he could recollect hearing, and they made him tremble in place: "Jaskier…I'm sorry."

Eyes blown wide and staring at nothing, caught by his own mind in the dangerous open light of a torch, the bard's entire form shivered like a dying thing and then went stock still. He didn't know why the softly murmured phrase brought him to a standstill. He couldn't remember the last time such simple words had affected his mind so. He couldn't understand the strange rush of fondness and concern that ebbed through him at the memory. There were visual flashes in his gaze, hidden memories breaching the false walls of his mind for a moment: dragons, floating spectres, wolves and wargs, all painted over with the same emotions brought forth by the quiet, agonized apology.

Straightening as his breath came rushing back through his lungs, Jaskier exhaled silently and ran a finger over the stretch of skin above his lips, coming back damp. Uneasy sweat began to bead on his forehead as well. There was so much wrong with his world at the moment that he could scarce believe it was his.

Then, abruptly, there was movement a few torches away. Familiar, though recent. Facing away, moving slowly, staff tapping along the packed dirt like a dying drum.

Energy and purpose suffusing his being, Jaskier strode forward with grace and silence he barely recollected. There would be no dawn for this tale.

No. Simply a midnight's end in the depths of a faithless town.