Nauseating flashes of being turned, limbs grabbed and pulled. His head pitched akimbo. A swinging wave passed through, as the light in front of his now fiercely closed eyelids brightened perceptibly. The foul smells of civilization, decomposition and ammonia permeating through the outside blowing winds. Time passed, and alcoholic fumes and sawdust to absorb overtook when the air hung thickly inside. He was becoming more discomforted as he was lurched about. Noise, speech, he missed. Then gruff words. A disdain. "How much he got?"

A bluster of protests exchanged, and people shifted him again, too many people around him. The wrong people. Missing people. A cold surface under his back and head… he felt like was falling through it, dissipating, failing to exist. He tried to buck away, find somewhere sounder, could not rise against the force pinning his chest. It tightened, digging in at five points.

A voice out of breath. Not his, though he felt like he could not get any air. "Enough for a fair price. Usual rate, pay a smidge for a few light meals. Sergeant's coming by later, the bard better still have the rest of his coins. Won't tolerate no thieving."

The sounds hovered over him. The thick air was too heavy on his face, too restricting. The slam of an object next to him, a familiar twang muted, and a jingle, normally welcome with a hint of frenetic musical notes. He winced and grappled to get away from the presently loud sounds, banging around his head. A softer noise. More bickering, and the sound of coins clinking together, the slam of a wood mug on a table. A sigh. "A deal then, I'll pay two nights for him now, if he lives you can square the rest with him. All healer's all got called up to the camps, get one of your women, one I saw last few night maybe, Milah, to see to him. Man needs to get warmed, tended to."

"That'll cost extra."

A jerk on both wrists, being wrenched away, his neck bobbing too far back. Then up and over, until he lost all track of where he was, feeling too much pressure inside his face.

Sharp pain erupted with a pop in his shoulder stretched out by his back as he was curled around something. It pressed him hard in through the waist. The rush of the warm fluid, dripping to meet his neck and into his hair. And he found his voice finally in meager protest. "Hey, please. I, uh." The effort was as poor as he had ever made, unsuitable for a trained orator.

"I gotcha. Almost there. Work it out with when he's in his own right head. Like I said Sergeant will be by later. Nothing funny!"

"Fuck, Geralt please?" He tried, confused. Geralt was never rough with him when he was hurting. The grip on him tightened as his arms and legs swung. The fullness in his head increased, and it was getting harder to breathe.

"So upstairs in a room then?" Movement, rocking him. It was a most unwelcome addition to his torment. He was sure his stomach had migrated into his throat.

"Nah, put him in the girls room, don't want to take space from real paying customers."

A low growl from the not Geralt. "What's he then, you cheap prick?"

"Oh, gods, set him here. It's the bard! Stopped here a few weeks back, remember!" A lighter voice, feminine, though the accent was different.

He felt unsafe, as if being dragged off a ledge by his ankles, and was dropped onto something not soft. The pressure on his diaphragm was gone, but a chance to draw in a restorative breath got captured in his throat. A cough broke out, instead of being able to catch his breath. "Sit him against the wall. Hold him upright. Be right back. Bran please set some water to boil."

His chest heaved. Stars broke out behind his eyes. Little flashes of pain flickered in the building tension in his head.

His coughing continued, until he lost the energy, and just choked. A hand pressed him firmly in place, and he heard a tink on the floor. His chest quivered with exertion, everything seemed too much to worry about, and then it seemed no worry at all.

"Breathe slow, in through you nose, out through your mouth. Got some water for you, a little honey to hide the burdock." She hummed, "In and out. Good. In and out."

The world spread from the middle of his vision, dark corners receding, but not absenting. Jaskier tried to gaze at her, innately curious. Her face remained a blur, but a rich halo of hair and warmth met him. "My," and he coughed on the compliment, magnificent too long of a word to speak with his lung capacity, "angel."

"Hah! Not quite. Not anymore. Though I think you called me that in Ellander as well." He felt the cup against his lips. "Drink. All of it. Slower, remember to swallow. Take a breath. And the rest." The taste was too heavy. "At least part of your cognition is intact then. Or obsequiousness is really so compulsory in your personality."

"Fuck got blood and puss all over me now. Good luck Milah. Guess you'll be busy for spell then. This bard walked to the station, from gods only know where, and dropped, he's cut up a bit, and seems to have fever."

"Catch your breath again. In and out. In a minute I want you to drink as much water as you can, I have the kettle on the fire, will make you some ginger tea with willow bark and cool it down." Strong hands worked quickly over his jacket, untying his shirt and his breeches. She removed every wet scrap, despite his ineffective participation. A flashing thought, it was the least effort he had ever made to get undressed with an eager woman. "Shush, your clothes are too wet, and covered in dirt and straw. I'm sure your back is already infected, but it can't help to leave you in such condition. Now roll forwards, onto me, good now back. Put your feet flat and lift your hips."

"Where's. Uh. God I'm poorly." He coughed again, and his stomach jolted. The retch hurt, and he tried to clench to guard the pain. But that hurt too. A hand that felt too cool, squeezed his left shoulder commiserating, belying her next words.

"Nope, not allowed to throw up in here. That's a rule." She told him too seriously. "Can you tell me what happened?"

"Missed the ferry." Jaskier struggled to even recount any part of his recent past, unable to describe the walk, the night spent listening to the tail of the days long fighting, and hiding from the retreat of the Nilfgaardian men slinking back south.

A sad amused noise escaped her mouth. "Lacey, good you're here. Pour the kettle, and make the tea sitting out over there. Yeah, another one, just as bad as the man in Yurga's cart two days ago. Soldiers keep finding injured strays. Wonder how the last one did, sorry I missed seeing to him. With the corporal I was, he told me later of what happened. And I told him of my past. This one, Jaskier is going to stay in here with us I guess. Bran won't occupy one of the rooms."

An annoyed noise of disapproval. "We don't want a man in here with us, it's hard enough to get settled down after working all night. This is our space, Tommen would never have even asked."

"Sorry, Bran's an ass, but I must monitor him until he is no longer febrile and delirious. He could choke if becomes ill. And he needs us to keep him drinking and clean, medicated until he can maintain himself.

"Besides, do you remember him from two weeks ago, preforming here? I've met him before too, years ago in another life. He's a puppy, loud but harmless."

"On your head then. Don't make it a habit. Haven't you opened your own clinic yet?" He caught the new woman's wink as he drowsily swivelled his head, too slowly to keep pace with the speakers.

"Okay Jaskier, where's the pain?"

"Head, my shoulder, arms." He stopped to take a breath, and another. "Throat, my head. My wrist." He felt the mug against his lip again, and he opened obediently, swallowing back the harsh flavour of well water. "My head."

"Sorry, the tea is strong, just a few mouthfuls and you'll be done, won't taste great, but it will settle your stomach, and reduce your fever, a bit." The bitter taste made him shiver. "Okay, I know it's bad. Keep going.

"Lacey, help me wash him. Get this dirt off him. Everything was on him completely muddy. Never seen such fine clothes ruined so thoroughly. " He fell into a deeper daze, as the women rinsed every inch, his personal privacy disregarded. But the press of cloths, warm and cold rasping over his scuffs and bruises still felt good. A dump of water through his hair made him shake, coming back to himself again. Both women laughed. "Almost done now, that's the easy part right."

"We never get to bath them first, should make this expected of service?" The other women's rougher voice chortled, "But I wouldn't want to do it. This isn't so bad though, he's still pretty, despite looking like he went through the water mill. Don't remember him, did he spend the night? Who with?" A blanket smelling like harsh lye soap was tucked around him. Another tucked underneath him, by both women, breathing hard, pushing him this way and that, not stopping to ask for his assistance.

"Wouldn't mind a policy like that either. But this Jaskier just played, kept his tips. Think you were off at market. Talked with Tommen, gods rest his soul, for a while, and slept alone." She tapped Jaskier, the side of his face that did not feel tight and sore. "Jaskier, that's your name right?" She waited for a bit, and he nodded wincing, once he realised an answer was required. "Okay, just checking. It's going to hurt for a bit, and I don't have anything good for pain. If you weren't so sick, I'd let you get a whiskey or two first, but alcohol's not wise right now. Do you need anything first?"

He shook his head, losing the message in her voice as it glided over him. It was too hard to appreciate the meaning in almost anything she spoke, but their voices were lovely company.

She pushed low on his stomach, he squirmed uncomfortably. She glanced around and lifted a pitcher and shrugging. "Okay this is going to be a lot nicer, if you just make yourself piss now. I know. I've seen one before I promise. Its normal, but we both don't want have to worry about that in half an hour, when I'm trying address your wounds."

The other woman chuckled. "We've both cleaned up worse."

"Nenneke always said to be proactive." Milah scoffed. "It's okay, I got the jug there, you just go." The hard coolness against his anatomy did not encourage the effort.

Jaskier's brain, the part that was not completely asleep or fighting against the dizzying spin, or the pain, or just telling him to get moving, shorted in feeble embarrassment. While his face was already bright red, or just obscured by the bruised lump, he still felt a warm flush go through him. And he tried to relax enough to complete the request.

"So I should be probably explain where we've met…. Wait, we're going to lay you on a pallet now, and Lacey is going to disinfect those scrapes and wash them with a little alcohol, sorry. And I'm going to examine your shoulder, wash it out, and apply a honey dressing. Nothing as fancy as at the Temple, but we will make do, best of this situation. To tell you the truth, the town healer being gone is definitely a good thing. The old fart was taught in some backwater, and still thinks leaches are course of treatment for blood poisoning." Jaskier was lulled by her tone, and did his best to help lay prone onto the layers of blankets and linens. The floor still seemed to jab in at unlikely angles. The words rushed over him like a song, her cadence low and soft, rolling. He missed some of it he was sure. He heard, but could not remember. The next sensation was a jarring surprise.

Cold fire sluicing down his back. His brain flooded with adrenaline, and the empty taste of metal dried his mouth. The burning sting accompanying steel wool being ground into back, ripping through into his chest. He shook them off, rolling away, only to be stopped by an immutable force. Fingers digging into his face. Moving him back, more pressure. The sense of a being worn away. "Jaskier, I know it hurts, be still. We are being as quick as possible. Jaskier, shhh, be easy."

"That wrist is bit swollen, I'll try and wrap it for you." The older woman spoke.

The pressure into his shoulder increased, he arched again, "Ow, please." His face felt wet. "I'm sorry please."

"Shh, getting closer. You're doing well, for a bard.

"Okay just breathe. In and out. Wish we were at the Temple. In and out." She seemed to be digging in his back with a pair scissors. The new pain brought a certain clarity. Or the other things she had given him brought his fever down enough to comprehend how bad things were going. Perfect timing, to emerge just in time to make things worse for himself.

"Wish there was a mage about. Should have him properly sedated for this. Literally digging splinters of hay out of his cut. I should have more light. Even some damn fisstech would have been something. All I have is fucking willow bark."

"You're doing great Milah, would have made right proper doctor if fortunes had held. You do right by us for sure." The other woman knelt next to Jaskier, and started working her fingers through his hair, pressing firmly, rubbing fingertips into his temples and working around.

"Listen hear Bard, you're in good hands. Do what she says, and you'll be back to chasing adventures, and chasing your lovers. Cause that's what they say about you. Never paid for it I bet. Not with those eyes and that smile." She hummed. "Too fucking bad I say."

The faces of many attractive women and half elves he had indeed employed came to mind. "What's your name?" It came out wrong, a broken rasp. Jaskier forced his jaw to work, but she must have seen the effort, despite him pressing his face into the bedding.

"Hush you Dandelion. Trying to get you to notice something other than pain. I'm better at that, than this healing stuff. Years of practice. Even had the looks for it once, to match my name. – Lacey." She kept working at every tense spot, moving to his neck.

Jaskier could not see her, to assess the truth of her words. But it hardly mattered, the harshness of her profession had clearly had not stripped her of her beautiful spirit. He tried to concentrate on the exquisite massage. A sense of earnestness crested him and his jaw creaked open. Old habits were hard to break, not that he would admit to old anything. "Bit hard on yourself, your countenance as dainty as the fine china used by queens, not unravelled by passage of time."

Both women snorted. "Melitele, he's loopy."

A cold wet dressing pressed into gash across his right shoulder. "Okay, you will sit up so I can secure it, you'll feel faint I'm sure. We'll help, keep taking deep breaths, go slow. Go slow! But hold on to us if you can, help us keep you sitting, and I'll give you some more tea, just ginger and honey okay."

They helped him shuffle over, while the younger woman Milah, kept her dressing in place, then padded a few more pieces over it. She reached around his whole chest, unrolling what appeared to be appropriated stockings.

"I boiled those dressings this morning, I'll prepare more now I guess. A few of the unlucky farmers have stopped by, ones who ran fast enough." Milah rinsed her hands in what was left of the cleaner water, and smiled as the other woman pressed two mugs to her hands.

"The one on the left is yours, with a touch of the better whiskey in it. Bran says you are to stay working in here, watching the Bard, says he agreed to pay our normal fair for one on one services." Lacey chortled. "I don't know if you'll have an easier night or not. I've got a customer waiting apparently. Not sure where the creep got the coin after Nilfgaard took all of his stock."

"Good luck. I'll get him settled." Jaskier drank the rest of what Milah demanded, and wooziness returned in force, and she let him lay back, with a cool cloth across his forehead and eyes to block out the harsh light of the day. A restless and uneasy sleep took him.

Hours later, Jaskier sweated profusely, and had trouble staying still, every position providing some new method of torture. Distracting himself by trying to make conversation with the woman sitting cross-legged near him, was confounding, each topic the next Deja vu. It seemed a dream. Many of the things he spoke to her, she seemed to know already. And she was ever persistent with her foul teas, the endless jug of water, and the larger jug for what came after drinking too much liquid. And she could not be talked into serving even a single pint of beer.

As Milah observed the color the second jug after again holding it in place between his thighs, she nodded in what seemed to be approval. She stood slowly, obviously stiff herself, to go dump it again.

"I hope you don't get those containers confused." Jaskier told her being churlish. He missed the expression on her face and Jaskier frowned as she left the room.

Jaskier's eyes roved over everything again in boredom, but things were hard enough to grasp on to now. It was as though he was trying to analyse a complex portrait done in some novel style to evoke unexplored emotions. Of the seven liberal arts, physical art offered him the least interest, unless it was piece illustrating an evocative romance or great beauty.

The small room was flourished with a few personal touches illustrating the complexity of even a working girl's life. The scents wafting from the top shelf of a shared chest of drawers against the far wall were not perfumes, and bunches of herbs tied hanging in the darkest corner of the room were not for cooking. But a clay vase held brilliant blue dried roses. A book was perhaps the most unusual object, hidden under folded clothes and linens, but the edge of the spine was visible at the angle he lay. Another woman had a small patchwork doll on the middle of her pallet, one had a pipe. Clothing hung on low lines against a wall, the dresses in as bright of colors could be found so far from a real city. The room itself was swept, and smelled as fair as sleeping quarters could, a pride emanating that felt genuine.

Two days passed in a pattern of restless sleep, his useless attempts not to disturb the other women he was quartered with, one of them, often Milah, finding him breathing faster with pain or fever, and making him a tea, helping him wash. They talked amongst themselves, but often spoke to him, telling him as many of the stories of the outlandish people they had met, often amusingly sardonic. Sadder was the accounts of the tragedy that occurred when a small Nilfgaardian group had seized the town a week back, and slaughtered everyone in what functioned as the common room and town hall down the way. They had left without a word to anyone, the carnage inside had been hideous, and like the rest of the war, unnecessarily brutal. The owner's brother Tommen, had been in there. And the mood still hung on the town, in the wake of the rest of carnage of the war. Other travellers were drifting through the war torn countryside, like refugees from Cintra who had evaded foreign soldiers.

Stories metered through and Jaskier tried to engage in it, but felt so exhausted. Even when he was awake an opaque veil wrapped him, and every little thing, trying to stay polite and gracious were hard. Listening to raucous conversation he was too weak to join in and lead by grand example, the clink of glasses and the aromas of real food unaccompanied by his lively music to brighten the atmosphere, and the creaking of boards above him the pitch of the moans clearly absent of a skilled lover made him acutely aware of the absence of his favourite pursuits.

The relative privacy he had that night with being well enough to be let alone, as the women were working upstairs or serving in the tavern area was broken by a discordant noise, a scream.

A harsh sobbing preceded the heavy staggering steps into the room and Lacey collapsed on the pallet with the pipe. A smear of blood, across where she rolled away from him, seemed to appear ominously.

More shouting, calling for guards, and there was a pounding of feet, the thudding of flesh against hard objects. Jaskier tried to move, wanting to check on the woman. And find something to arm himself, in the absence of a better plan. And he quickly recalled he was naked, and more pointedly, he was weaker than a newborn foal.

"Lacey. Love?" Jaskier called to her, and she ignored him, rocking herself.

Bran poked his head in and swore viciously. "Ran the cunt off. Guards didn't get off there asses before he stole a horse. You can have the whole cut dear, as consideration. Call faster next time, will you? This commotion is bad for business."

"Give the good woman more regard than that, sir." Jaskier broke in.

Milah pushed Bran out of the way as she raced back in. "Melitele's tears Bran, get out of here. Go clean up the room yourself."

The innkeeper, and apparent dethroned brothel manager winced back, and turned, but he tucked a few coins on the shelf by the door.

Milah shot Jaskier a pointed glance and he turned away with a groan, and drew the blanket over his head and tried to pretend he did not exist, more than understanding the unwelcoming of his presence. He vibrated, in fury. Geralt's story of the rapist he dispatched came to him, and he wished he had his own sword. But that he was not who he was. Nothing but a bard that spoke too often, but never fast enough to keep others from harm.

Jaskier wanted to hobble over and offer the woman comfort, but felt paralysed by the immediacy of the emotions. Milah was trying to whisper, but in such a small room, it was impossible not to hear her questions, the hiccupped answers first unbearably sad, then growing more harsh, angry and self-deprecating. Milah filled another basin and stretched a sheet between her hands to provide a modicum of privacy while the other woman washed.

Heavy footfalls came into the common room, but Bran stopped what seemed to be the guard contingent from entering their room. His raised voice describing the whoreson, and he waved them off from questioning the women. "She's my toughest whore. If she screamed. Well string him up when you catch him, cause if you don't, I will," was the last thing Jaskier heard Bran say.

"I'll find somewhere else to stay," Jaskier offered still trying to lay to face away from the women.

"You'll do no such thing." Lacey sniffled. "Milah the bandage on his shoulder has soaked through."

"Okay, let's get you settled first, and I'll get you a drink. And I'll set a blanket to warm by the hearth for you. Here's your shift. I'll do your laundry tomorrow." Milah made to stroke her face. "You're safe in here, okay. I'm sorry he hurt you. We'll take care of each other right. That's what you say. We'll take of you too."

"I can't believe I didn't just kick him out. He was a pig last time, thinking money would impress me. They were only Nilfgaardian florens, like those will spend well for the next twenty years here. Bragging he got paid to watch out for some girl. Long ashen curls and blue eyes, aged fourteen, some Cintran noble's daughter."

Everything she said made Jaskier drop his heart. "He was paid in florens to watch for a Cintran noble's daughter?" Jaskier asked.

"S'what he said, but who gives a shit. Entitled asshole. Thinks he can just pay for whatever evils he likes. I should have made him leave." She made a noise like a whimper.

And like that, his world turned, what had seemed lost to the vengeful vagaries of fate bloomed back into existence. His mind whirled with possibilities, stretching through connections and patterns, plotting every outcome of every implication in this new information, this new chance. It was not even his chance, his happiness, but the future seemed to brighten.

"It's not your fault, it's never our fault. We don't make them do anything." Milah spoke firmly, but in softer tone Jaskier felt power behind.

Jaskier felt a tingling in his fingers, buzzing in his ears, and his face was numb. He gave a shaky breath. Must have been louder than he meant, as he heard Lacey start. Milah re-entered through door, her arms laden. "Jaskier, what's wrong. You're whiter than a sheet. Pain's back is it, it's a bit early, but I'll get the tea ready anyway."

"Give me two damn minutes." Jaskier cursed, unsure if to trust his indeterminate relief, and if it really should mean anything for him. And he clenched at the wince crossing her face in fearful response. He forced himself to lighten his tone. "I'll be fine."

"Okay." Milah watched him, a wary cast in her eyes that he hated.

The description, the age, ands gods Jaskier performed at her last birthday six months prior, and had watched the girl dance and spin on throne room floor with more self-assurance than her mother carried. The mood of the evening had none of the waiting menace of Pavetta's betrothal dinner. Calanthe had even let him sing a few of his more recent pieces, after getting in private word before. She informed if he spoke a word of the witcher to anyone, he'd be gelded. Eist had sent his fees to him after, with a startling if cheeky bonus, a gifted gelding horse, now stolen. If it were not for Cintra's flagrant racism, Jaskier would have appealed for a permanent appointment there. He would not run into delinquent sorceress in the fiercely independent kingdom, or errant monster hunters.

But his memories of the girl he had suppressed flashed forward. Ciri had begged him to sing "Her Sweet Kiss" over and over during the next day's luncheon, and the wonderment on her young face had been so endearing, as she started mouthing along. He had played, trying to stay true to the emotion, but he had watched her grandmother carefully, hoping she did not guess the song's subjects.

And then their deaths… But this shred of information was a confusing burst of hope. He had been at the dinner, performing among everyone, no other girls had struck him with such a description. The royal women bore such a distinctive appearance, Ciri's great grandmother had been her twin as well, from the paintings in the family hall. Nilfgaard's focus on the girl begged many questions, but she must not have been found at the keep. And if she was alive, then possibilities split before him. His grief peeled away to leave him raw, and unsure if he should take any comfort in this.

Nilfgaard's searching for the girl. Geralt's child surprise. Did the witcher find her, were they together then… Nilfgaard paid real coin to have at least this man keep watch, had Ciri been confirmed in the area? The man must have some way to contact someone in the hierarchy, and there must be more spies about. Jaskier was glad his infirmity had kept him from performing, as he was sure he would have mentioned something regarding the pair, and painted a target on his back.

Jaskier's two minutes had passed, because Milah set heavily in front of him. Her disapproval and tiredness stamped at him.

"I offer my sincerest apologies, being such uncouth boor, I'm unsettled this evening, more in heart than in mind. And I regret offering you even a single harsh word sullied with misplaced pain." Jaskier said as gently as he could manage, when Milah pressed his tea into his hands. He gulped it back, learning as it cooled it, the flavor profile did not improve, and waiting only prolonged the experience.

"Don't swear at me again. But, I understand this night is not happy. Besides, your bandage needs changing again, and if I was vindictive I would get a perverse pleasure at cleaning it out again. But I'm not, so you're safe." Jaskier tried to smile at Milah, but she turned to rinse her hands in the strong soap in one of two basins she had moved over while his mind was elsewhere.

Milah shook her head, and cooed softly as she tugged the dressing away from his skin, with the application of water recently boiled and left cooling in kettle. "Shush, almost done this part. The honey is doing the trick, no puss this time, the edges are much less red. Too bad you got it so dirty, would have been a much neater scar, if it wasn't guaranteed to abscess and go gangrenous if we tried to seal it with stiches. Much better to heal inside out now." She hummed as she worked, rinsing it, and applying another dressing as close to sterile she could manage, soaked with honey, and iodine salts. "Wish I had silver nitrate. It burns, but discourages infection. Costs too much and such things are impossible to find out in the middle of nowhere."

"Do you think you'd go back to complete your studies, if you could?" Jaskier tried to ask, keeping his breaths even, puffing through the stinging. At least the wound was less sensitive than the days prior.

"After my father died, and I travelled to Nazair for the funeral, I found the family fortune squandered, I had no money for my return to the temple to finish. I tried to travel back North anyway, but ran out of funds early." This part he was sure he heard before, but in a delirium. "No one would hire me for anything that would take me back to Melitele's Temple, and I ended falling in with this lot after exploring a few less palatable options. Bran and his late brother did their best to keep us safe, and let us manage ourselves, and paid us enough to stay healthy. Least I'm able to save some money, can afford to help the villagers where I'm allowed, but no, I'm too old and too jaded to mix back in with those innocent young things.

"There and sit and I'll secure it." She threaded a roll of bandage around him a few times. She tied it off expertly, and washed her hands again, scrubbing them in the soapy water.

Jaskier's hand grazed her shoulder, pressing gently as she leaned away. "This town is lucky to have you."

"We are." Lacey said, her voice small.

A rhyme struck him… "So wise and fair my dear she be, A healer and a lover thee, A grace on earth a prize indeed, Her worth no other could exceed."

Milah considered him and shook her head. "I'm beginning to understand the stories about you."

Jaskier jerked his head and whined. "What stories? Whose?"

Lacey winced. "Me too. If you're feeling up to singing, would you, something soft, I want to get my mind away from everything, sleep?"

"As you wish my ladies, I'm afraid I'm unable provide suitable musical accompaniment with my lute. A bit sore, and my hands are unsure." Jaskier nodded, trying to think of something appropriate to soothe mood in the room.

A deep breath, and Jaskier worried he had not warmed up his voice for such excursions in days, and had he spent too much time coughing and retching. He arrived on an old favourite of his, lovely, the notes exquisite, complex, and the rise and fall would lull his listeners. "She –"