A/N: Next chapter will be taking a trip down memory lane in a literal sense. I will update the next chapter on Tuesday, until next time, LaniAhava out!
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Chapter 2
Lost, but not gone
Fiona – formerly Princess Cirilla – keeps her head down, tugging her hood down further when she glimpses people getting too close to them. She hastens her pace, tightening her grip of Geralt's arm before they enter the inn.
That is until Geralt just stops couple of steps away from the innkeeper. She turns to him, curiously why he looks to a corner of the open space of the inn. At the direction that caught his attention, sat a young woman in a dark cloak, nursing a mug.
The young woman is glaring at the table before her, unbothered by the crowd in the inn weird staring, let alone Geralt's. Fiona's grip tightens in worry by the tight look Geralt had. Fortunately he snaps out of it and looks down with a soft look.
"Ask if there is any room available," he tugs off a bag from the side of his belt and drops it into her hands, "I'm going to get some…information."
Troubled, she stares at the bag, then she looks up and gives him a sharp look, "Stay safe."
Somehow his look softens more and leans down to press his forehead onto hers and gave a comforting grip on her shoulder. With a promise, he gravely say, "I will return."
A last look at the woman, Fiona makes a quick walk to the owner to enquire for any room.
"—Still wont forgive you from doing that to the poor Master Bard. And I will say it again!" the woman stabs her finger at the man's chest before her, "The Great Master Bard Jaskier was just here and if you had not let slip to those fools he was staying here, we would have made more money with his songs.
You better pray to Melitele his white wolf doesn't find out lest he would kill us to vent out over someone on hand than those Nilfgaard mages who killed his bard."
A loud choked whimper had the couple turn to Fiona in surprise.
"Lies! You are lying!"
Distantly she hears Geralt curse, but she cannot not know. Jaskier, her favorite bard. The one who always sang in her birthday, brought her trinkets, taught her play a couple silly lullabies with a lute, and whisper forbidden stories of the white wolf behind her grandmother's back.
Who was supposed to have been too far away from everything, doing travelling bard things.
The older woman seeing through her, whispers in sympathy, "He was someone dear to you, was he not, child?"
She gives a sharp nod, holding back her tears. The two older couple look at each other and woman frowns at him for a moment before reaching down and places the lute on the counter.
His lute.
Her fist clenches on her cloak, glaring in accusation with blurry eyes at the man who seems taken back.
Why? I have already lost my family twice over and my home, but someone I looked up something of a brother too?
"He promised we were going to do a duet," fingers carefully reached over and grasps the lute. Behind her she hears a sharp intake, but Fiona ignores it.
Her surroundings blur further and focused only in staring at the untouched for who knows how long lute. There was a sense of being dragged somewhere and the only reason she didn't snap out of her shock was the familiar, comforting smell of Roach, firewood, and onions. All her attention is on the lute.
When she felt gently pushed back, Fiona blinks and finds herself seating on the bed of a room.
Looking up, the lady in a cloak from earlier was arguing in hurried, panicked whispers with Geralt, who responds with growls and a more prominent frown.
The bed barely creaks under her as she settles the lute on her lap. Blue eyes flashes in her mind, snickering at Mousesack looking torn between horror and amusement as he kept an eye for any sign of her grandmother while the bard taught her his most famous song.
His calloused hands guiding her then soft hands on a practice lute he brought his last visit. All through the winter he taught her the basic care and use of it.
Promising next time not only doing a duet in front of her grandparents, but letting her touch his precious lute.
She plugs on the strings to check how much she needs to tune it. Thankfully she hasn't forgotten. In no time at all, a couple of chords as warm up silences the room. She carefully plays the chorus of the one song they had practiced in secret.
"Toss a coin to your Witcher
O' Valley of Plenty
O' Valley of Plenty, oh
Toss a coin to Your Witcher
O' Valley of Plenty"
They had left the inn, barely fighting the urge of strangling the man who sold Jaskier out to Nilfgaard.
Although he has a suspicion that Yennefer did do something.
Once in the forest, Geralt gave Ciri her space, or so he tells himself, unable to be near let alone hear the lute of his...best friend in the whole world.
Then again when they returned to the forest, Ciri let out a scream—so like her mother—echoing his own agony and despair that literally took down part of the forest.
Hence now Yennefer offers to train Ciri as long as the sorceress doesn't have to leave to chase down whatever business she was doing in that inn. At least this is something to distract his child surprise.
Just as he contemplates if he would cut down a couple of trees himself to rid of the overwhelming heaviness in his chest, a dark curly haired woman appeared with a vibrating wolf medallion.
Worried for a second by the sudden appearance of the magical intruder, Geralt only lowers his sword at the sight of Triss Marigold.
The sorceress appears hurried with scars wrapped around her arms and part of her face, which he never saw when he last saw her.
She gives him a quick greeting nod and her gown fluttered by him in agitation.
Curious of his friend, now that two—being Mousesack and...Jaskier—are gone, maybe he should see if there is anything he can be of help.
Anything to distract him of his grief, even temporarily.
There is no time or more like it's running out as each second is wasted in not finding him.
There are not many truly worth humans let alone one toward a sorceress, more so now that she isn't the usual beauty each sorceress gains through their trials.
Once she catches sight of Yennefer, the dark curly haired woman takes a moment to stare at her friend.
The other woman hadn't changed much and seems more settled despite of the lingering Chaos flickering about. But that is expected when the other woman released such power at Sodden.
The aftermath of that battle was so much and no one can be trusted even more so from the remnants of the Brotherhood.
Shaking her head, Triss strides toward Yennefer, hoping at least some advice for her current personal mission where her special alert went off days ago. Unfortunately, she doesn't have the necessary knowledge to even find where the situation is with the trail now cold at the nearby town.
It was fortunate she found traces of Yennefer's magic of a man with a exasperate wife of an unknown inn.
"Yenn," she whispers only to freeze at another source of power, not quite Chaos, calling her. She looks next to Yennefer.
A young girl with shimmering white hair looks up between the two of them, sitting while holding the lute.
Oh.
Looking up to ask Yennefer, she stops once more at the shocked look of her friend. Her mouth seemed turned to say something, yet unsure what.
Triss frowns, but feels the sands of time slipping, "I need your help with finding someone."
"What...?" Yennefer kept staring at her.
Triss huffs a relieved laugh, "You were always a couple of steps ahead and here you are already half helping without realizing it."
She gasps when Yennefer tightly embraces her. The powerful sorceress shook, but knew that was practically her way of crying. Triss rubs her back and hums the tune the Master Bard made for her.
"You're truly alive," Yennefer whispers in relief.
Triss only smiles into her hair, "And I naturally knew you were, but before we can exchange stories, I was serious of asking for your aid in searching for a certain bard who I gave a protection spell that activated days ago. Only until now I found some remnants in the inn."
"Do you mean Jaskier?" a soft, but hopeful voice spoke up.
Triss looks down and gave a depreciative smile, "We never really exchanged names since our focus was escaping and then split up from an Nilfgaard prison."
Just as her face began to fall, Triss crouches down, "But if he is the owner of this lute, then it is. I can still feel the spell running."
Turning to Yennefer, Triss informs her gravely, "The first couple of layers have already been broken."
"How much time?" A gruffer voice than she last heard asked behind her.
Geralt looks hopeful as the young girl and Triss realizes why the Master Bard was taken. He was the infamous Witcher's Bard. It was no wonder she was comfortable with him. Any friend of Geralt is a friend of hers.
Now she is curious what kind of protection the spell took form as being that she let it be an open slate for the Master Bard to create as she provides the power behind it despite of unable to use it to find said bard.
As long as he still fighting back, the spell would hold against just a bit more away from death be it physical and or mental attacks. But nothing is infallible.
She winces, feeling the spell take more of her reserve Chaos left for such spell. The problem is the spell is dragging too much, too fast, "At most, a week and that is being generous."
Jaskier grimly thinks, as he groans in pain with a cracked voice, Remember how you make your songs, your ballads with little information!
As if weighted a ton, he lifts his head and stares at his current tormentor, the chain shifting at every hit he takes being raised over the ground. The passing guards shifting cards, betting when he'll break. The nasty grime growing on the stoned walls. The creaking of steps after a door was opened.
Time has no meaning, Jaskier winces at the shifting, broken ribs, I am outside raising my arms, trying to reach the pouring heavens. Every step, the leaves are being crushed underfoot. The forest around me is old and the wind is blowing ever so often, making trees wave at the chance of quenching their thirst…
A painful crack broke into his thoughts, but as quickly, Jaskier shifts it back to the story, Thunder rumbles nearby. The storm is at its zenith.
The constant pain fades away, now smelling the faint rain. He smiles.
What a wondrous sight.
Unbeknownst to him, silver rivulets slide down, mucking the puddles forming around his feet with chamomile growing in the amidst of it.
