A Little Life

Jaskier

"And don't you fucking dare let my lute get wet, witcher! I'll know if you do. She'll tell me."

Jaskier's tone is light, jesting, but his hands quake as he secures the precious instrument beneath one of their saddlebags. The rain has been spitting down on the three of them since they set out on the road - just a few hours ago, judging by the faintest sunlight visible near the horizon through the black clouds crowding the sky - and Jaskier tells himself that his shaking is just from the cold.

"I am not leaving you!"

Geralt's voice is a heavy contrast, thundering through Ciri's own horrified plea,

"Jaskier, no - no, you have to come with us, please. " But Jaskier is already backing up, shaking his head at their outstretched hands.

This is as brave and as good as I can be, he thinks.
"Roach can't carry us all. Not fast enough, and you know it," he answers instead, surprising himself. He tries to keep the grief and terror from his voice, but sees both reflected in Geralt's golden eyes when they meet his own. In all their years on the Path, Jaskier can't think of a time he's ever seen Geralt look so frightened, and that frightens him. "You have to get her to Yennefer."

The rain is slamming down now, hitting the earth in heavy sheets that threaten to drown out his voice, even with so little space between them. Geralt looks as though he's been cleaved, glancing between Jaskier's face and the imposing forest beyond him. True thunder booms in the sky above and all three of them jump at the intrusion - the rumbling is a vicious reminder of the small army at their backs.
It's too soon to hear them, really, but only just. It's a small miracle that they had made it all the way to Dorian before Nilfgaard caught up to them - just a single whispered word of warning from a kindly innkeep had given them enough time to flee. They were still close enough to hear the first screams from the modest houses at the edge of the town when the first wave of soldiers arrived - even Jaskier knows they have precious little time for theatrics.

Jaskier is grateful for the storm - he thinks it might muffle the hammering of his heart as he indulges himself with a long look at each of them in turn. This, I can do for you. This I know I can give, he thinks.

"Princess," he utters, and sketches a little bow to Ciri. For Geralt, a wink and a grin - the one that Jaskier saves just for him. "Witcher."
Geralt is already shouting when Jaskier pulls a hand back and smacks Roach's flank with as much strength as he can muster. She snorts, likely insulted more than startled, and pulls her riders forward. Geralt could stop her if he wanted to, but the truth of what he must choose has already settled on him like a shroud. Jaskier can't hear anything over the falling rain now, but he watches Geralt roar back at him through the rain.

I'll find you! Run, I'll find you.

Jaskier doesn't run. Not right away, anyway. He takes one last look as Geralt urges Roach into a full gallop, Ciri in tow, and walks back into the road. He waits until he can hear new hoofbeats - it's only moments, he knows, but they stretch out forever. How poetic of him, to stand and smile at the rain - to pull sweet, cool air into his lungs as he waits for death, or worse.

Only when he spots the first blur of black and gold over the swell of the road does Jaskier jog toward the thicker, far less navigable forest opposite Ciri and Geralt's escape route. He drops a delicate piece of blue fabric, stolen from Ciri's pack, and bolts .

Jaskier can't tell how many soldiers flood into the forest behind him, but he knows he will find out sooner rather than later. He sprints through the sparser edge of the forest, dodging low tree limbs and sidestepping their roots until his legs and lungs ache, and then keeps running anyway. As he loses light, he loses coordination and over and over again, his feet twist in undergrowth to send him sprawling.

When there is no more light and the useless sliver of a waning moon starts to rise, Jaskier slows. He can hear nothing but the slamming of his own heart, but he is sure the Nilfgaardian soldiers are getting closer - sure he can feel breath at the back of his neck, so sure of the black-gloved fingers closing in the collar of his doublet - but when he dares to glance back he remains alone in the dark. He starts to think he might actually slip away from them - until the earth disappears beneath his feet and dumps him into waist-deep water.

Jaskier's mind empties of all thought as he focuses on keeping a shriek stuck in his throat instead of letting it escape into the black air. He turns and turns in the dark, terrified, his breath coming out in ragged pants that he can see in the air and gods, when did he get so cold?

Jaskier knows what lurks in the swamps of the Magpie Forest. Well, he knows what it looks like. Well....he's heard , from villagers and such, probably, that something wicked lurks in the swamps of the Magpie Forest. He thinks it was the Magpie Forest, anyway. It's certainly enough to send him scrambling back up that traitorous embankment and onto somewhat drier land. He clambers along the edge for a while, doubles back past a familiar-looking tangle of tree roots for the third time, before resigning himself to settle in for the night. The trees are older this deep in the forest, their ancient roots exposed by the constant movement of water, and it doesn't take Jaskier long to find suitable shelter beneath one of them.

Jaskier's mind brings the creature within it to life without his permission - its shadowy claws emerging from the inky water to clutch at his ankle, its dripping, gore-filled teeth snip-snipping at the hollow of his throat as it crawls toward him on six - no, maybe eight - eight crooked legs.

Hunted on both sides now, an unknowable monster ahead and a much more familiar one at his back, Jaskier listens closely over his shivering breath, trying to pick out the sounds of one or the other coming for him. Whatever creature lay ahead may well be a better fate than facing down Nilfgaard and as Jaskier looks out at the swamp - in this consuming dark, the water is nothing but endless, unnerving black - he imagines walking out into it.

His heart starts to hammer and he shakes away the thought just as a low, crackling groan erupts from the ground beside him, not five paces away. Jaskier bites down on yet another scream, leaping up at once to defend himself. He locates the hideous creature in time to hear it croak once more:

Ribbit

"Oh fuck you very much, you nasty thing!" he whisper-shouts at a plump toad, pointing an accusing finger at it in the sparse moonlight. It winks one slimy eye at him, then the other, and Jaskier scowls back at it as he catches his breath. He thinks it looks rather pleased as he settles himself back into the hollow of the tree.

There is a rustling, and Jaskier leans forward to see his unlikely companion hopping toward the embankment.

"Watch where you're going, mate," he mutters under his breath just as the creature tips its fat little body over the edge with a plunk. Half a breath later, there is a splash, the toothy snap of some other inhabitant - some hungry, waiting thing - and then, silence.

Jaskier shudders and tucks his legs closer to his body. An idea - a plan - starts to weave itself together in the corners of his tired mind like the beginnings of a ballad, and he grasps at it to avoid imagining what the coming hours will bring. He is certain of only one thing; there will be no more running tonight. This will have to do.