fly, sings the sandpiper to the kestrel

“Bard.”

He skids to a halt, heart jackrabitting into his throat. Yennefer stands in the center of the fray, branch gripped in hands that all but tremble as she watches the blonde girl— Ciri, Geralt’s Ciri— thrash and kick and Geralt tear his way through the soldiers trapping her.

“Witch.” They don’t have time for sanity-defying hugs and soft words here. Jaskier raises his hands as if she’s going to bolt, or jab him with her very large stick, or frankly both. “Yennefer, why?”

She swallows, throat bobbing, but without reply hurries past him. Towards Geralt. He wishes he had the heart to stop her.Jaskier knows what it is like, to fear losing that which gives you purpose. He had said as much on that boat back in Oxenfurt. It's what drives him, now, to alter the course of Destiny. Ever so slightly.