Fuckety fuck, they have seen him. They will be here in a minute. Maybe he can still outrun them? In their armour they cannot move that fast, right? Yennefer will be back for him as soon as she has finished off that owl-witch-bitch. He only needs to hide somewhere in the woods for a few minutes, maybe half an hour. Quick as a fox, Jaskier darts away from the doorway and to the left. Suddenly, a swish in the air. A feathered bolt flies by directly in front of him and disappears between the ivy covering the wall of the cottage. And a second one. Jaskier freezes. He knows the Redanians would not shoot him dead, but it looks like they are very willing to shoot him half-dead or something. As long as he is still able to talk, they will probably not give a shit about how many holes he has in his body. And Jaskier prefers his perfect body with no more than the biologically necessary and convenient amount of holes, thank you very much!
"Yeah, that's a good bard. Just stay there like this and you might live to see another day," the soldier with the crossbow shouts. They advance on him, and there is nothing he can do. Except wait for a miracle. Or Yennefer.
However, Yennefer does not return. Not after a few minutes, when the soldiers have tied Jaskier's hands tightly behind his back. Nor after half an hour, when they are all crammed into the little rowing boat that has brought him to the island not so long ago. And neither later, when the Redanians kick and pummel their captive into walking as fast as he can across the beach and into a forest. Fuck, fuck, fuck. How is Yennefer supposed to find him now? What is even worse, what if something bad has happened to her? The thought alone makes Jaskier want to retch, or scream. Is he worrying too much? She is Yennefer of fucking Vengerberg, his hero! She might just need more time to find him now that they have left the island.
However, the further they walk and the more time passes, the heavier grows his heart. The forest is becoming denser, the ground covered in thick undergrowth, and dusk is slowly falling. Dark thunderclouds are piling up in the orange evening sky. It is going to rain soon. Glorious. As if everything is not dreadful enough already without the weather being a bitch, too.
Then the soldiers stop. Not exactly gently, they force him to sit against the trunk of a big tree. While they are gathering wood for a campfire, presumably to roast the poor wild boar piglets the soldier with the crossbow shot earlier on their way, one of them is holding his sword uncomfortably close to Jaskier's throat effectively preventing any thought of escape. What if he suddenly has to sneeze? Jaskier wonders instead. The blade would surely cut through his vocal cords like if they were nothing. But they are everything to a bard. So, he better not sneeze if he can help it.
Not sneezing soon turns out to be the least of Jaskier's problems. While the fire is crackling happily and the piglets - not very happily - roasting on spits above it, the soldiers seem to have come to the conclusion that they should use the idle time to grill the bard. Fortunately not above the fire or with the help of fire. It soon turns out to be quite painful, nonetheless. No, not quite painful, very painful.
"Now bard," the one of the soldiers who appears to be in charge of the kidnapping operation approaches the tree. From his impressive height of 6.4, possibly more, he gazes down at Jaskier as if he was a mere insect. "As you might have noticed by now, your sorceress is not coming back. May she rot dead in a ditch."
"Rot in a ditch yourself," Jaskier spits, trying to look braver than he feels with the sword still trained on his carotid artery. "Yennefer's not dead. That woman is near to invincible. She'll be back, you'll see. Just before she kicks your sorry arses."
"Stop deluding yourself. That bitch's stone-cold dead. Nobody'll come for you. T'his just you and us for a couple of days. You cooperate, tell us what we want to know, and we can make those days as little unpleasant for you as possible. You could have some of that barbecue, for example. We are willing to share."
"How generous," Jaskier scoffs, in spite of the rumbling in his painfully empty stomach. "But no, thank you. I don't dine with brutes like you. I have my standards."
"Brutes?" The soldier leans down toward the captive with a scowl. "You dare call us brutes?" Then he draws himself up to his full height again. "Heard that, boys? Let's give him some brutes, shall we?" Amidst the jeering laughter of the other soldiers, he grabs Jaskier's left hand by the wrist and pulls it toward him. "Nice fingernails you have. Look almost like my wife's." The cruel smile that has appeared on the man's visage while he scrutinises the bard's fingers gives Jaskier the creeping horrors. Why must it always be his fingers? He damn needs his fingers, he is a bard!
With his free hand, the tall soldier produces a dagger from his belt. Jaskier's heart leaps into his throat. Fuckety fuck, fuck, fuck, the Redanians aren't intending to do what he thinks they are? He is very attached to his fingernails, every single one of the ten, his toe nails, too, come to think of it. Still, his fingernails are even more precious to him, for how can he play his lute without them?
"Right, wait, I was mistaken, I admit it, a mere misunderstanding," he rushes to say, the words tumbling from his mouth in his rising panic. "You're not brutes, no, no, you're, you're - perfect gentlemen, yes, that's what you are. This dagger fingernail something thingy, can we just forget about it? Have a nice evening together like civilised folks? I could sing a few ballads for you while you dine, hell, I could even write one about you, the brave and very gentlemanly Redanian sol— Ahhhrrr!"
Not waiting until Jaskier has finished, the soldier has inserted the tip of the slender blade under one of his fingernails, the pinkie one to be precise, and pushes it toward the root. Ignoring the bard's screams of agony - or relishing in them, who knows - he then moves the blade upward, ripping the nail from its bleeding bed.
"First one done. How do you like my manicure, bard?" he asks, raising his bushy eyebrows mockingly. Jaskier does not answer. He is shaking and panting heavily, trying to suppress big sobs of pain, albeit only barely successful at doing so.
"My nail care skills have left you speechless, I see," the soldier goes on. "What about I'll give you some time to recover your voice and come to your senses? I'm a gentleman, after all. Talk again after dinner." He lets go of the bard's trembling, bleeding hand. Jaskier quickly clutches it to his chest. "And make sure you'll give us what we want then. If not, there're still nine to go. You know what I mean." He winks at the bard. Jaskier gives a faint nod. What else can he do? Looks like the Redanian is right. Nobody is coming for him. This time he is totally and royally fucked.
Before the Redanians sit down by the fire to eat, two of them truss him up and secure him to the tree with the rope they took from the rowing boat. Difficult to say what was worse, the sword held to his throat or the tight fetters cutting into the delicate skin of his wrists and preventing him from any form of movement besides the shallow in and out of his chest while breathing. Well, he can still move his head a little. But what for? Just because he can? All of a sudden Jaskier feels tired, so very tired. If his mutilated finger wasn't hurting like seven hells, he would certainly fall asleep within the second. And wake up in his nice and cosy bed in the little cottage, preferably in the company of a beautiful woman, or man, fuck, even a mermaid. No, actually, it is his dream, isn't it? Then he can choose the company, right? What about an incredible, black-haired witch then? A witch with the most amazing purple eyes? With the sweetest smile? Most enticing scent? He even takes the clunky shoes full of snakes ...
"Jaskier?" A soft whisper from behind. Her voice. He must be dreaming. A nice dream. Only that he is not lying in a comfortable bed but - sitting up tied against a tree? Shit, yeah, that's what happened. Suddenly he remembers everything clearly. But the whisper was still in the dream? Or wasn't it? He strains his ears. There it is again. He turns his head to the side where he thinks the whisper has come from.
"Yen? That you?" It is her. She is here. His hero has come back for him. Now everything will be good. Yennefer will kick their arses just as he told them she would. Yeah, he laughs best that laughs last. Or she. No, they. They, together. Just why does Yen not simply use her magic to cut him loose? And blow those baboons to smithereens with her incredible chaos, or make them drop stone-dead, turn them into rocks or trees or whatever? Something must be wrong. Did she get hurt while duelling the other witch? She hasn't lost her magic again, gods forbid, has she? Well, she got him out of a very tight spot before without her magic, so don't worry too much, Jaskier tells himself. You can worry about Yennefer afterwards, when they are safe. Which they will be. In a few minutes. If only those frigging ropes came off faster.
Footsteps. Fuck, someone is coming. No, no, no, no, no, this is so not fair, Yennefer is almost done! Just one or two more minutes! They aren't going to interrogate him again? Jaskier breaks out in a cold sweat at the mere thought. But Yennefer is here now. She will not allow them to hurt him again, no. She will protect him at all cost. Yet, what if she really is hurt?
There is no time for Jaskier to think more about it as the tall Redanian is already looming above him. He is offering him something to drink. To lubricate his voice, sure! Jaskier is horribly thirsty, and, come to think of it, hungry too, starved even, but he would not betray Ciri even if they offered him the best Tussaintois wine and roasted heron. Not even if they got him drunk like a lord on Skellige whiskey, no. And why would he care about them being promoted, unless it was to hell or wherever evil bastards go? Maybe he can stall a little to give Yennefer more time to do something? Play the 'daft bard card' once again?
Unfortunately, the Redanian does not buy it. At all. Well, it was worth a try, but shit, he should not have said the p-word. Now the guy seems really pissed at him. Jaskier cries out in pain when the angered soldier slams his head into the tree. Then the man notices that most of the ropes have been cut and shouts the alarm. Fuck!
Even before Jaskier has fully recovered from his head's impact with the tree, the Redanian's words are drowned in a grisly wet burble. Drops of a warm, sticky substance spray the bard's face and his cornflower-blue eyes widen in a strange mixture of horror and adoration. The soldier is sinking to the ground, a big, gaping, blood-spurting hole in his throat where his carotid artery has been severed. By no other than Yennefer. Has she ever looked more gorgeous and awe-inspiring than exactly in this moment, splattered with blood, bloody knife in her raised hand? What a sight! If she is injured, it does not seem to be too bad, thank the gods.
Yennefer steps away from the tree. The five remaining soldiers are coming closer, swords raised. They have to get away, and quickly so. Time to get rid of these ropes. Although more than a little revolting, almost stomach-turning even, it is quite fortunate that the dead soldier's body has fallen more or less directly into Jaskier's lap. It enables the bard to easily reach for the man's dagger with one hand. Swallowing down the bile rising to his mouth from the sweet, iron-tanged scent of blood in the air, Jaskier swiftly cuts through the remaining ropes. Thanks to Melitele, he is free once more. No, he corrects himself, thanks to Yennefer, his hero. A hero who is now facing the five well-armed Redanians with just one little knife in her hand. Well, and her magic, hopefully.
"Yen, you can do this, I know you can," he whispers from behind. It feels true, too. Then, to Jaskier's horror, her magic fails. Fuck! He did not see that coming - or did he? The soldiers' mocking laughter at Yennefer's expense suddenly makes Jaskier angry as hell. No one is allowed to ridicule his saviour! Not if they want to see another day! His gaze falls onto the dead Redanian's belt. Exactly what Yennefer needs. He draws the sword from its sheath, springs to his feet and presses the hilt into her free hand. He has not seen it himself as he was late to the party, but he has gotten the end of the story from the others, the story of how Geralt and Yennefer, together with Téa and Véa, destroyed the Reavers when they attacked to slaughter Villentretenmerth, the Golden dragon, to steal his egg. The sorceress was said to have not only expertly wielded one sword, but two at the same time, like any Witcher. Geralt must have shown her some of his tricks, or do they teach that at Aretuza? Perhaps it's just what Yennefer does? Anyhow, he is pretty sure that she would know how to use the weapon, a lot better than he himself. He is not bad with a blade, no, Geralt has seen to that, out of sheer self-preservation, but he is far from being an experienced fighter. Not to mention that he has never killed a person, nor has he had the desire to do so. Well, the desire part is up for debate now, however, the mere desire to end someone does not give you the required skill, does it?
The Redanian soldiers seem not to have heard the story of the dragon hunt. Lucky that Jaskier never mentioned her sword-fighting skills in his ballad either, only the long-necked warrior belles. In their ignorance they make the very stupid and very deadly mistake to underestimate Yennefer of Vengerberg. A mistake you only make once. Well, Jaskier does not complain, although it is soon becoming a bit gross for his taste. Or his stomach. Good thing it is virtually empty. Seeing one soldier's cut off head fly through the air while his severed neck is gushing blood in all directions - and mostly into his and Yennefer's faces, as if their clothes and visages weren't stained enough from the first blood-spurting body already - is not a sight he would recommend after an extensive dinner, or not after anything else actually. Not an image to dwell on, though, the next Redanian is charging at his friend. Yennefer parries his blows admirably, but Jaskier can easily see that she is not at the height of her abilities, neither her magical nor her sword-fighting ones. She moves more slowly, as if every movement was causing her pain. Maybe it is? Something must have happened to her during her duel with the owl-witch-bitch. The soldier is not bad at fencing either, on the contrary. However, he is so focused on Yennefer that he does not notice the bard coming at him from the side. Jaskier aims his dagger at his thigh with force. It works. The man staggers. And gives Yennefer the perfect opening to stab him through the heart. He drops his sword, an expression of utter astonishment and disbelief etched forever on his face. Then he crumbles to the ground in a profusely bleeding heap. Another one. Excellent team work, too bad Geralt didn't see it. Jaskier would have liked to celebrate their success a little, at least with a quick handshake, shoulder clap, or hug, maybe a little kiss? However, it has to wait. There are three more soldiers to defeat before they are safe. Three more soldiers who, unfortunately, seem to have learned from their comrades' grisly deaths, fuck. Jaskier quickly grabs the fallen sword of Redanian corps number three. A dagger would not be of much use to him in this fight. Not to mention that the dagger's blade is still embedded in the dead soldier's thigh almost up to the hilt. No, a sword is definitely the better choice here although he has not wielded one in quite a while. Years actually. Hopefully he won't be totally useless at it.
It soon turns out he is not. He is far from brilliant, of course, he is a bard, after all, not a fencing master, but it could be a lot worse. At least he manages to keep one of the soldiers busy enough so he would not join the other two who are attacking Yennefer with all they have. A swift glance to the side reveals that Yennefer's skills are far superior to the soldiers', however, she is slowing down. Having to fight two opponents at the same time is taking its toll. She will not be able to hold this up for much longer, and what then? Naturally, like in any proper ballad, now, that doom will soon be upon the tragic hero and her even more tragic bard, the sky suddenly rolls with thunder and bolts of lightning cast the deadly fight in an eery, almost unearthly light. If he were not here to witness it, Jaskier would not believe the coincidence. Or is it destiny? Or the goods having a good laugh perhaps? Maybe this is just a fictitious story playing out on a stage called the continent and they are mere actors in an epic drama? While one god is the playwright and another one the director? Then there is the god for the special effects, he - or she? they? - is doing a hell of a job with that thunderstorm, it is impressive and the timing excellent. The casting director god is definitely a genius, having paired him, Jaskier, up with gorgeous Yennefer. The Redanians could have been a bit smaller for his taste, and scrawnier, maybe a lot younger, too, or way older perhaps, and certainly less many, but, Jaskier has to admit, a drama can only be good if there is one - or several - really badass villain. There would not be anything heroic or exciting or even remotely interesting about two strong and attractive hero characters fighting one - maximum two - weak and small, childlike or very old antagonist, no. No one in their right mind would want to see something as ridiculous as this. However, two main problems remain with the performance. The first issue, where is the music? Can you believe a several hour play without a single note of music? There must be at least one god around who cares about emotion and atmosphere, building up tension and the glorious release of it in the end scenes, right? Well, and then, there is this, of course, what type of drama is this supposed to be? A tragedy with everybody ending up dead at the end of the final act? Nobody has asked him if he would be willing to act in a tragedy. He would never have agreed to it, no matter the pay. No, he is definitely the comedy type character, romance would be acceptable, too, a little adventure once in a while, or a musical, of course, sign him up for it any time. But not a tragedy, please, gods, don't let this be a fucking tragedy.
Shit! Just as he is thinking this pretty disturbing last - no, hopefully not last, latest, his latest - thought, one of the soldiers fighting Yennefer breaks into barking laughter. Yennefer is holding her side. Dark blood is seeping through her fingers. Not good, no. She fights on though and, with one vicious blow, hacks off the man's ear. He howls and presses one hand to the grisly wound, however, like Yennefer, he fights on, enraged like a stuck bear. And the bear of a soldier the bard is fighting is coming at him again, too, with vicious blows of his sword.
"Urgh!" Jaskier just so manages to suppress a cry of agony as his thigh explodes with sudden pain. His opponent's blade must have nicked the side of his leg. Fuck! With his free hand, he clutches at the bleeding injury while fighting on with the other. This does not look good, no, definitely a tragedy, then. Unless they use a deus ex machina. Not his preferred stylistic device, no, not at all, smacks of sloppy plot development and lack of both logic and imagination. However, for this one play he would make an exception. Hear that, gods? An exception, please? And - quick?
An exception is not needed. The hero is enough, more than enough. Jaskier senses it the moment Yennefer thrusts her arms into the sky with an earth-shattering scream. Lightning seems to collect all around her, making the air glow in an eery bluish light. Jaskier knows that Yennefer is not a tall woman, not even in high heels, no, far from it, but all of a sudden, she looks huge, as if she was filling the sky. A goddess of thunderstorms. Then, the world explodes around him. No, not the world. Just the Redanians. Another sight he would not recommend to anybody at any time. Jaskier quickly closes his eyes. However, the image of splintered bones and shreds of flesh and brain and guts flying in all directions - no, not all directions this time, very much to his relief only in the direction away from him and Yennefer, the centre of the magical shock wave, which, come to think of it, makes sense, at least according to the laws of physics as far as he is acquainted with them - this image is still etched into his retina. Hopefully not quite for the rest of his life. However, there is no time for Jaskier to contemplate the issue. A swirling portal opens up a few meters in front of him.
"Go," Yennefer shouts. Then she collapses to the ground. Gods, she isn't dead? Killed by her own magic? No, please, this cannot be happening. Jaskier rushes to her side, cradles her limp and, fortunately, not very heavy body to his chest, lifts her up and leaps through the portal just before it closes after them. In a swirl of light, they are gone.