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viking-raider · 4 years ago

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A Soldier’s Daughter - Chapter V

Summary: Skye goes after Geralt, while the Witcher makes a series of choices, that leads to a cataclysm of repercussions, for multiple people involved.

Pairing: Geralt of Rivia/OFC

Word Count: 10,877

Previous Chapters: I II III IV

Rating: PG-13 - Witcher!AU, Slow Burn, Language, Angst, Mention of Violence, Minor Character deaths, Fluff

Inspiration: The Witcher on Netflix, with instances of the Games and Books.

Author’s Note: Tell me what you think! Thank you to the marvelous @wondersofdreaming for the encouragement and beta!

Tag List: @jennylovelyheart, @peakygroupie, @jessevans, @rosie-loves-things, @ohjules, @mary-ann84, @omgkatinka, @the-freak-cassie-131, @wardl0w, @agniavateira, @cap-barnes, @romyr4, @michelehansel, @kaatelyyynn, @badassbaker, @mrsaugustwalker, @authentic-bish-face, @rizeandvibe, @severuined, @supernaturalvikingwhore, @bellastellaluna, @wondersofdreaming, @thisisntmyrightera, @michelle-1185, @winchwm, @royallylazy, @sofiebstar, @worldicreate, @bellastellaluna, @fantasygirlsuniverse, @witches-of-discovery-a, @xuxszx, @ayamenimthiriel, @keiva1000, @itsreigns, @constip8merm8, @scorpionchild81, @mylifefallingupthestairs, @onlyhenrys, @luclittlepond, @ellixthea, @lebguardians, @geralt-yennefer-jeskier, @cherrybloomn, @p3nny4urth0ught5, @iloveyouyen, @hollydaisy23, @mcuimagination, @psychosupernatural, @sweetlybigdragonn, @whitewolfandthefox, @moviemonzy, @the-soot-sprite, @hell1129-blog, @trippedmetaldetector, @captaingothgirl1996, @dont8mind8me8eue, @peaky-marvel, @desperate-and-broken21, @monstersnmoney, @dancingwendigo, @redhot-mystacism, @thereisa8ella, @black-ninja-blade, @oddduckthatgirl, @rosewinx, @henrythickcavill, @tinabean37, @hnryycvll, @msblkfire84, @romangenesius, @emelinelovesjc, @strangerliaa, @lovieebby, @pinksdaydream, @fanfictionaddiction99, @seb-owns-these-tatas, @oh-for-fic-sake, @sauvage-et-libre, @mis-lil-red, @angreav, @crazyandanonymous4u, @the-mighty-jellybean @henrycavell, @jimmypagesandbrianmayshair, @iam-laiya, @worshipping-skarsgard, @thetruthandotherstories, @ruthoakenshield, @lostinaseaoffictionalbliss, @theonetheycallhannah, @nina-skyee, @thatgirly81, @inanna999, @suueeeeeee, @spideysimpossiblegirl, @x-wingwarriorbbpoe8, @beckster07890, @daddys-littlewhitegirl, @magic-and-the-macabre, @stxphmxlls, @radaofrivia, @lostinaseaoffictionalbliss, @starstruckkittyangel, @heartfelt-pen, @stuckupstucky, @dummiesshort, @la-cey, @singeramg, @queenoftheworldisdead, @brooklymw

Geralt groaned as he sat down on the bench at the far corner of a pub in Upper Posada, a mug of mostly untouched ale on the table in front of him.

The sparse patrons dotting various tables, lost in their own conversation and drinks, when the sound of a lute strung up above the murmur of voices, some of the voices dying out as the Bard in the corner diagonal of Geralt started warming up his vocal cords and dove into his first song.

“You think you’re safe, Without a care! But here in Posada, You’d be wise to beware..”

He strummed his lute and slowly moved about the pub, catching a few of the pub goer's eyes.

“The pike with the spike, That lurks in your drawers Or the flying drake, That will fill you with horror!”

People started shifting and giving the Bard dark looks as his song progressed, shaking their heads at him and even a few plugging their ears with their fingers. The Bard stopped by a post, resting his shoulder against it and planting his foot on top of a nearby chair, his eyes focused on Geralt, who continued to ignore him.

“Need Old Nan the Hag, To stir up a potion! So that your lady, Might get an abort--”

The pub patrons turned on him instantly, tossing everything they could at him, bread, mugs and anything else they could get their hands on.

“Abort yourself!” One of the patrons roared, throwing a handful of something at the Bard.

“Hey, hey!” the Bard whined, holding his lute up to protect his young and handsome face from the onslaught. “I'm just so glad I could bring you all together like this.” He huffed, battered back to the corner he started in by the projectiles. “Unbelievable.” He sighed, putting his lute down and stooping to stuff a couple of the bread rolls into his pockets for later.

Straightening back up, Geralt, still staring down at his untouched ale, caught the Bard's attention again. Biting his lip and taking a mug off a tray of a passing barmaid, he dared to get closer to Geralt, oblivious of the vibe coming off the Witcher. “I love the way you just...sit there in the corner and brood.”

Geralt growled and looked away from him. “I'm here to drink alone.” He rasped, his mood had been sour ever since he decided to leave Skye behind at her parents' farm in Temeria, two weeks prior.

“Yeah, okay. Good.” the Bard nodded, not getting the glaring hint to piss off. “No one else hesitated to give me their opinion on my performance, other than...” He pushed off the post he was leaning on beside Geralt's table and helped himself to the seat across from the sullen Witcher. “You.” He finished, rapping his knuckles on the wooden table.

“Come on, you must have some review for me.” He pressed Geralt. “You don't want to keep a man with—bread—in his pants waiting. Three words or less.”

“They don't exist.” Geralt replied, gruffly.

The Bard blinked at him, confused. “What doesn't exist?” He frowned, shaking his head.

Geralt simply blinked at the younger male. “The creatures in your song.” He answered, after an awkward pause and realizing the Bard wasn't going to leave until he answered him.

“Oh, fun!” The Bard grinned, finding it was a game and lighting drummed his hands on the table. “White hair, big old loner, two very scary swords--”

Grunting, Geralt looked at his coin bag as the Bard rattled off descriptives about him, noting the single coin he had left from the job he did in Lyria for killing a Bruxa a few days before. Pressing his lips together, he grabbed the strings of his coin bag, letting the coin drop, quietly leaving it for the Bard and hoping he would get the point to leave him alone, as he grabbed his swords leaning against the wall behind him, stepped around the table and headed for the door.

Smirking, the Bard picked up the coin and quickly stood up. “You're Geralt of Rivia, the Witcher.” He called after Geralt, who only hesitated for a split moment, but it was enough. “Called it!” He yelled at him, grinning, and proud of himself.

The pub patrons twisted in their seats and stared after Geralt, one of them shooting up out of his seat and going after Geralt. “Wait!” He called, picking up his step before Geralt could get out the door. “I have a monster for ye, Witcher!” He said, relieved when Geralt stopped, but didn't turn back to him. “A Devil, it's stealing all of our grain.” He explained, heart pounding as he stood before the Witcher.

“I'll pay you, a hundred gold.”

Geralt turned towards the window that was by the door, weighing his interest, then frowned at the kid. “One-fifty.” He sighed, rolling his eyes.

“You leave no prisoners, so I've been told.” The kid said, holding out the stuffed coin bag to Geralt.

Taking the bag of coin, Geralt turned back to the door and strode out, crossing the swaying bridge that linked Posada to the rest of the Continent and where he had left Roach to graze on the tall grass. “Come on, Roach.” He bid the mare, untying her from the hitching post and led her up the path toward where he was told the supposed Devil resided in the hills.

“Need a hand!” A voice called behind Geralt as he ascended the upward climbing dirt road. “I've got two.” The Bard said, catching up alongside him. “One for each of the Devil's horns.”

“Go away.” Geralt barked at him.

“Yeah, I'll only be silent back up.” He said, not giving in. “I got what you were saying back in Posada. Maybe real adventures and monsters would make for better stories and songs, and you, sir, smell chock-full of them.” He rambled on. “Amongst other things, is that onions? You smell like death and destiny, heroics and heartbreak.”

Geralt paused at his use of the word, heartbreak, which poured salt into the broken pieces of Geralt's heart, adding to his pain and fueling his anger. He looked at Roach, as if to ask, 'should I kill the Bard?' Then, turned to face him.

“Come here.”

“Yeah?” The Bard grinned, naively stepping closer to Geralt, only to be given a stiff punch to the stomach, knocking all the air out of his lithe body and stumble to the ground, onto his hands and knees.

“Come on, Roach.” Geralt said, turning back up the road and continued on, sure that the annoying Bard would get the point to get lost and leave him be, before he did something worse.

But, aggravatingly enough, the Bard didn't get the hint. After a few minutes to recover his breath and get back onto his feet, the Bard was running up beside him again. Geralt twisted Roach's reins around his gloved fist, trying to hold himself back from tossing the Bard over the side of the road that let out into a steep cliff and the valley of Posada below. The Bard babbled the whole way up the mountain towards the supposed location to the 'Devil of Posada', as the Bard was calling it.

“Were I to join you on this feat, to kill the Devil of Posada. I could relieve you of the title of Butcher of Blaviken. I could be your barker, telling the tales of Geralt of Rivia, the White Wolf.”

“Butcher is right.” Geralt huffed, rolling his eyes.

“You mind, if I hop up there with you?” the Bard asked, his feet killing him from walking so far. “I'm not wearing the right shoes for all of this.”

“Don't touch Roach!” Geralt barked at him, sharply, but pulling Roach to a stop.

“No, right. Fine.” the Bard sighed, frowning.

Geralt got down off Roach, noticing the Bard flinch as he did, fearing that Geralt was going to hit him again, which did nothing, but inwardly made the Witcher feel even worse. Skye would have told him off, for being so mean and hitting the Bard for no reason other than being annoyed by him for not getting the hint and buggering off. Sighing, Geralt led Roach the rest of the way up the path and found a sturdy tree to tie Roach's reins to it.

“You know, the Elves used to all this place Dol Blathanna, before bestowing it to the Humans.” the Bard said, gazing around the mountain side. “Then, vanished into their Golden Palaces, in the mountains.”

Shaking his head, Geralt disappeared through the tall grass and brush, leaving the Bard to continue on with his ramble.

“There I go again, just delivering expositions.” Then, noticed Geralt walking off. “Geralt. Geralt! Where are you going?” He called after him, jogging to keep up. “What are we looking for again?”

“Blessed silence.” He rasped, moving between two rock formations and missing the comfortable silence that would fall between him and Skye.

“Yeah, I don't really go in for that.” the Bard shook his head. “Have you ever hunted a Devil before, Geralt?” He asked, wanting to get as much information out of the Witcher as he could, for future songs and poems.

“Devils aren't real.” Geralt huffed, like it should be obvious. “Sometimes there's monsters and sometimes there's money. Rarely both.” He explained, moving slowly as he scanned the area. “That's the life.”

“Then, what are we hun--”

“Shit!” Geralt barked, something wheezed through the air and struck him on the forehead, leaving a deep gash behind, as he retreated backward to the cover of one of the rock formations.

“Act Two begins!” The Bard announced happily, throwing out his arms and stepping forward.

“What was that that hit you? It was like a teeny cannonball from a—oh my gosh” He paused, catching sight of a pair of horns in the tall grass in front of him. “Geralt, it is a devil. I have to see this amazing, this marv--” Another projectile flew through the air and struck the Bard in almost the exact same spot on the forehead Geralt had been, then dropped, like a lead weight, sending up a plume of dust as he hit the ground.

Geralt lifted a brow at the downed Bard, half thinking how nice it was he had shut up, before pulling aside some of the tall grass beside him, and started slowly stalking forward. The bleat of a Goat broke the humid air and Geralt was rammed in the gut, sending him flying backwards to the ground beside the Bard.

“Leave me be!” the Goat-like creature screamed.

“You talk!” Geralt barked, jumping back up onto his feet, stopping the creature from ramming him again, and tossed it to the ground.

“Of course I talk.”

“What happened to you?” Geralt asked, holding the creature down with a forearm to its chest. “Your mother fuck a goat.”

“I'm Torque, a Sylvan.” The Creature barked, struggling. “A rare and intelligent creature.”

“You're a dick.” Geralt laughed, amused by the situation. “With balls.” He added, laughing at him.

“Balls I got from humans, who left them out to poison me.” the Sylvan growled, yanking out a handful of Geralt's hair. “Did your mother fuck a snowman?” He asked, turning Geralt's joke around on him.

Amusement lost, Geralt punched the Sylvan square in the face, bloodying its nose. “You are intelligent, I'll give you that. So, I won't kill you.” He told him, sympathetically. “But, you can't stay here.”

“Neither can you.” Torque replied, and a moment later, everything went black for Geralt.

Skye had zero luck catching up with Geralt, but hadn't let that stop her, she knew she'd cross paths with the Witcher again, it was just a matter of time, patience and listening for the right tales about him. She had heard from a farmer outside of Hagge, who had seen Geralt passing through, on the road towards Lyria. So, she turned herself and Arthas that direction, arriving four days later and stayed for almost two days, asking anyone and everyone, if they had seen the Witcher and found someone, finally, that said they had, that the Alderman had employed the Witcher's help killing a Bruxa nearly two weeks before, but they didn't see what direction he had left in.

She had started to worry, though. Her gold was dwindling, as hard as she was trying to spare as little of it as possible, as was her food source. She had come across a farm just outside of Lyria, a crop of corn growing high in the field, and waited until nightfall to secret herself into the field and picked several ears of it. Skye had also bought a small role of fishing line and a hook, teaching herself how to patiently fish in the streams she came across. Other than that, she'd go a day or so without eating, trying to keep her supply going a little while longer.

Picking a new direction, Skye rode from Lyria to Vergen, opening to get lucky there.

“Have you seen the white-haired Witcher, Geralt of Rivia?” She asked the first person she saw coming into the city, but they just shook their head and went on their way.

Sighing, Skye led Arthas through the city, stopping every so often to ask someone if they had seen Geralt, but none of them had. Discouraged, Skye found a shady spot to rest, the hot day wearing her down. Removing her water skin from Arthas's bag, she took it to the small fountain in a square in the middle of the town, refilling it, then cupping her hands and taking deep mouthfuls of the cold mountain water, sighing as it refreshed her dry mouth, even splashing some in her hot and dirty face, and the back of her neck. Going back to Arthas, Skye removed her coin pouch from one of his saddlebags, pouring the pitiful amount of coins out into her hand and counting them.

“Thirty.” She sighed, a deep anxiety settling into her tired bones. “We have thirty gold left, Arthas. We should have just turned back and gone home. But, that won't help us find Geralt, the pig-headed lout.” She grumbled, putting the coins back in their bag. “A month and a half of trailing him and nothing, but week old accounts.”

“When I do find that dumb Witcher, I'm shoving my boot down his throat.”

She had said all these threats to Arthas before, usually after scouring the last known place Geralt was seen at or rumored to be, tired and tossing on her bedroll as she camped at the edge of town or between cities. But, deep down, she didn't mean any of it, she missed him, her heart only aching more and more, the longer they were apart. It was later that night, while she was sitting in a tavern, slowly nursing an ale and sheltering herself from the Spring rain that had started falling just after noon, when a few drunks started piping up with a song that had Skye's blood freezing in her veins.

“When the White Wolf fought A silver-tongued devil His army of elves At his hooves did they revel..”

Her head jerked towards them as they continued to sing and even got a few of the other patrons to chime in with them.

“Toss a coin to your Witcher O Valley of Plenty! O Valley of Plenty! Toss a coin to your Witcher O Valley of Plenty!”

“Hey.” She barked at one of the revelers at the table beside hers. “Where did you hear that song?” She asked, her hands shaking as she grasped her mug.

“It's being sung in damn near every tavern across the Continent.” the man at the table laughed, and chugged down the rest of his ale.

“Who's song is it?” Skye demanded, pulling out a gold coin and waving it in his face, knowing it would give the drunk incentive to answer her properly, if it meant his next drink was on her.

“A Bard, Jack or something.” He said, bloodshot eyes following the sparkling coin.

“Jaskier, you idiot.” A female sitting beside him snapped, shaking her head. “By far a better lay than you ever have been.” She added with a huff.

“I'll give you another one, if you can tell me where to find him.” Skye said, after dropping the first coin into the man's beefy palm.

“Somewhere near Rinde.” The woman said, arm shooting across the man and snatching the coin from Skye before the man could.

Downing the rest of her own drink and rushing out of the tavern, Skye found where she left Arthas and tore through Vergen and out the gate, riding in the direction of Rinde, like the hounds of hell were after her.

“Ah, Geralt! I heard you were here, are you following me, you scamp?” The Bard asked, finding Geralt standing beside the lake in his hometown of Rinde.

“No.” Geralt rasped, fussing over a fishing net for a few minutes, before tossing into the lake, for the hundredth time that morning.

“Well, I am starving, fancy sharing some of your catch with me for breakfast?” He asked, tilting his head at the Witcher.

“I'm not fishing, Jaskier.” He sighed, pulling the net back in and found it empty.

“Then, what are you looking for?” the Bard frowned, growing concerned by the exhausted look and dark circles on Geralt's face.

Taking up the net, Geralt moved farther down the shore of the lake, looking for a fresh spot. The Bard followed after him, watching him for several moments as he repeatedly tossed and pulled the net in and out of the water, each time coming up empty.

“Talk to me, Geralt, what's the matter?”

Geralt opened his mouth, brain working to form the words that would explain his thinking, on how he was feeling; but failed and said the first thing that came to his mind. “A djinn.” He uttered, laying the net out on the bank and untangling it again.

“A djinn, like a genie?” Jaskier frowned at him, blinking at his friend. “The float-y fellows with the banned magics and wishes, that djinn?”

“Yes.” Geralt replied, standing up and swinging the net back into the dark waters.

“Geralt.” He laughed, amused, and shook his head at the Witcher. “Why would you--”

“It'll give me wishes!” Geralt hissed, startling the Bard. “It's in this lake somewhere-” He swept his arm out over the water. “And I can't fucking sleep!” He yelled, eyes glowing with his anger.

Jaskier gulped at Geralt, eyes wide with surprise at his friend's agitation. “Is this a problem, where you're trying to rub salve on a tumor?” He asked, even more concerned for the White Wolf.

“No.” Geralt barked, but faltered as he started to throw the net back in again. “That's not it.” He added, softly.

But, that was exactly what he was doing.

He had heard about a Wizard trapping a djinn in a bottle several years back and thought nothing of it, sure it was stuff and nonsense. But, since Skye, since leaving Skye, Geralt had thought about the djinn more and more, slowly convincing himself that finding the djinn would be the best solution to the growing hurt he had inside of himself, that was keeping him wide awake at night, or any other time he tried to find sleep and peace. He had convinced himself that wishing he and Skye had never heard of each other before, would be the best for both of them. He could go back to being an emotionless and unbothered Witcher and Skye could find someone worthy of her love and devotion. But, even then, Geralt knew it was nothing but smoke, that even if he could find the fabled djinn in the Rinde lake, he wouldn't be able to bring himself to wish her away from his mind.

Let alone his heart and soul.

“Why do you want this djinn, Geralt?” Jaskier asked, sitting down on a fallen log beside him on the lakeshore.

“Because.” Geralt huffed, he really didn't want to tell the Bard, knowing Jaskier would poke massive holes into his reasoning, without even trying or meaning too.

“You know, my muse and reason for living in this world, the Countess de Stael, once told me, 'that Destiny is just the embodiment of the Soul's desire to grow.' Though, that was before she left me, rather coldly, I might add.”

“Did you sing to her before she left?” Geralt asked, squatting by the lake's edge.

“I di—what's that supposed to mean?” Jaskier frowned, catching Geralt's dry insult.

Geralt paused what he was doing and looked over at Jaskier with a look that said it plainly.

“Oh, we are having this conversation!” He hissed, narrowing his eyes at the Witcher. “Go ahead, Geralt. Tell me what you think of my singing.”

Standing up and casting the net into the lake, Geralt frowned. “It's like ordering a pie, and finding it has no filling.” He told him, bluntly.

“You, sir!” Jaskier barked, wounded. “Need a nap! Are you trying to hurt my feelings, Geralt!”

Geralt reeled the net back towards the shore and perked up, feeling a weight to it, and pulled it in faster, finding something caught up in the net that wasn't a fish. Squatting down, he quickly untangled the net from around the object and felt a bittersweet elation, seeing the clay amphora with a wizard's seal on the cork.

“It's down—downright uncouth of you, if I'm--”

Jaskier paused in his tirade seeing Geralt standing up with the amphora in his hand, wiping the dulse and grime off of it.

“Wha-wha-what is that?” He stammered, moving closer to Geralt for a better look at it.

“It's a Wizard's seal.” Geralt answered, gripping the seal. “The djinn!”

“Do you mind--” Jaskier asked, grabbing the handle of the amphora and tried yanking it out of Geralt's hand, which was futile.

“Jaskier.” Geralt hissed, tugging back on the vessel. “Give it back.”

“Not until you apologize for that bit about my fillingless pie.” the Bard replied, grabbing the amphora by both handles and struggling with Geralt, who held onto the seal with a single hand. “Take it back, then you can have your djinny-djinn-djinn.”

“Let go.” Geralt ordered him, gruffly, jaw tight, and barely using his strength to hold onto the bottle with one hand.

“No! No, you let go, you horse's arse!” He barked back, giving the amphora one good jerk with his body.

The seal on the amphora came free with a wet pop, leaving Jaskier holding the bottle and Geralt, the seal. Both of them looked between the two objects, waiting for the djinn, or anything, to happen now that the seal had been broken and the urn was open.

But, there was nothing.

“Hm.” Geralt grunted, disappointed.

“Well, that was a bit anticlimactic.” Jaskier sighed, tipping the vase upside down to see if anything fell out. “Or was it?” He asked, perking up, as a stiff breeze rustled through the fallen leaves and trees by the lakeside, stirring through Geralt and Jaskier's clothing and hair.

Excited at the prospect of having a djinn at his disposal, Jaskier rushed to the edge of the water and started barking out orders at the invisible entity. “Djinn! I have freed thee and from this day forth, I am thy lord and master!” He howled above the still stirring winds.

Geralt stood in place, glancing around as a cold chill raced down his spine, his gut telling him something very malevolent was surrounding them, no doubt the djinn, for being locked away for countless years and Jaskier starting to bark out his first wish.

“Firstly, may my rival, Valdo Marx, the troubadour of Cidaris, be struck with apoplexy and die.” He said, with surprising coldness. “Secondly, the Countess de Stael must welcome me back with happiness, open arms, and very little clothing.”

“Thirdly--”

“Jaskier!” Geralt barked, grabbing the back of the Bard's expensive and flamboyant shirt, and yanked him backwards, halting him from making his third wish. “There's only three wishes.”

“Oh, come on, Geralt! You've always said you wanted nothing from life.” Jaskier argued, angry. “How was I supposed to know you wanted three wishes, all to yourself!”

“All I want is some damn peace!” Geralt roared back at him, teeth bared.

“Well, here's your damn peace!” He hissed back, smashing the amphora on the ground.

Geralt growled at the Bard and bent down to start picking up the pieces of the vessel, accidentally cutting himself in the process. The wind around them kicked up and a sharp pain seared through Jaskier's throat, leaving him wheezing and struggling to breath.

“Ger-Geralt.” He rasped, tearing at the collar of his shirt. “Geralt, the djinn.”

Shooting back to his feet, Geralt turned towards the lake and thrust out his arm for his Aard, striking the djinn and sending it screeching away. Glancing down at the deep cut on his forearm, Geralt turned towards Jaskier and frowned, seeing his neck swelling, and grew instantly concerned for his friend.

“Jaskier?” He whispered, as Jaskier reached out for him, rested his hand on his back and took his arm, steadying him. “Fuck.” He snapped, watching Jaskier cough up a mouthful of blood.

Not wasting a moment, Geralt supported Jaskier to Roach, got into her saddle and pulled Jaskier up behind him. Making sure the Bard was holding on tightly, Geralt spurred Roach hard in the sides and set out for Rinde at a steady gallop, the sound of Jaskier's struggled and painful wheezes in his ear as they rode.

“Is there a doctor here!” He called out seeing an Elven guard standing watch by the road.

“Yes, yes!” The Elf nodded, taking a puff off of his pipe and pointed to a white tent just behind him with the stem. “Chireadan, the Elf healer.”

Pulling Roach to a stop and swinging his leg over the saddle, Geralt slid to the ground, grabbed Jaskier and wrapped his arm around his shoulders, half supporting and half dragging the Bard into the tent. The Elven healer, Chireadan, was bent over another patient that was laying in one of the four beds in the modestly sized tent, as they burst in. Hearing Jaskier's throaty wheezing and seeing the blood dripping from his pale lips, the Elf politely abandoned the patient he was tending to and motioned Geralt to a bed he could sit Jaskier on.

“What's happened here?” He asked, pushing away the open collar of Jaskier's shirt, eyes wide at the fat swelling of his throat, that looked like the vocal sac of a frog, it was so large and inflamed.

“A djinn.” Geralt replied, looming over the Elf and Jaskier, protectively.

“Like, a djinn in a bottle?” Chireadan frowned, shocked. “It's like a fairy tale.”

“Minus the happy ending.” Geralt retorted, pressing his lips together. “Can you cure him?”

“Oh dear.” the Healer gasped, Jaskier pitifully grasping and pawing at him as he continued to examine his throat.

“What?” Geralt hissed, not liking the Elf's tone or facial expression.

“I promise you, that I have the best medical education and training here in Rinde. But,...” The Elf started to explain to them both, deeply concerned. “these are magical injuries. I can help the pain.”

Jaskier nodded his head at that idea.

“But it's like..”

“Putting salve on a tumor?” Geralt asked, lifting brow at Jaskier.

“No.” Jaskier rasped and wheezed, shaking his head at the Witcher.

“His throat has been attacked by the djinn.” Chireadan elaborated to Geralt. “If the magic isn't halted, soon enough, it will spread.” He picked through various bottles of dried herbs and liquids, pouring a few into a small glass cup. “He can die.” He said bluntly, not wishing to sugar coat it.

“Fuck, Geralt!” Jaskier whined, frightened.

Geralt grabbed Jaskier's arm and laid his hand on his back, trying to comfort him the best way he could. “We won't let that happen.” He said with an awkward assurity.

“Here, drink this.” Chireadan held the elixir to Jaskier's lips, helping him carefully swallow it down.

Jaskier groaned and whimpered as he sipped down the foul tasting solution, making his throat feel like he was drinking liquid fire. Geralt stared down at him, frowning, as he worried, and mentally beat himself for being so reckless. Everything he feared would happen, was happening. First, he'd hurt Skye by breaking her heart and abandoning her, then in his selfish quest to rid himself of the agony caused by his own ridiculous mistakes and choices, it ended up backfiring, and catching poor Jaskier in the crossfire. He had wounded the love of his life and just might have killed his best friend.

The weight of his choices since leaving Kaer Morhen were crushing him down more and more.

“You'll need to go to another town, to find a mage, who can cure him.” Chireadan said, breaking through Geralt's mental cloud of guilt.

“There's no mage here?” Geralt frowned, brow deeply creased.

“The town official said, they are dangerous.” The Elf shyly replied, biting his lip and unable to look Geralt in the eye.

“What aren't you saying?” Geralt pressed, narrowing his eyes at the healer. “Tell me.” He added in a low rumble.

“There is only one mage, I was tasked with bringing this mage in. But,” He paused again, and only continued with Geralt's threatening step forward. “I was unable to capture them, I was incapable of infiltrating certain defenses of theirs. So, the mayor had another do it, and has the mage locked in his home.”

“That was so fucking hard, was it?” Geralt snapped, hauling Jaskier to his feet, and starting for the flap of the tent.

“Wait.” Chireadan snapped, stopping Geralt from leaving the tent. “You have to be careful, the mage is rather cunning and malicious.”

Geralt rolled his eyes, he wasn't afraid of mages, he'd dealt with hundreds of them in his life, one more won't do him any harm. “Right, I'll go find him.”

With a sigh of relief, Skye finally made it to Rinde, only stopping long enough to allow Arthas to rest and be watered. The ordinary five day trip from Vergen, only took Skye three, bound and determined to catch up with Geralt before he could vanish into thin air again.

“Ms, you can go no farther!” a guard said, stopping Skye at the gate.

“What?” Skye snapped, frowning at him. “Why not?”

“It is too dangerous, you must turn back.” He told her, waving her away. “I am sorry.” He added, but Skye didn't move.

“Why is it dangerous?” She demanded, leaning forward in the saddle.

“There is a manic Witcher on the loose, the officials are trying to restrain him, before his rampage endangers anyone else in the town.”

Skye blinked at him, mouth hanging open and slowly turned Arthas away from the guard and gate. “Geralt, what the hell are you doing?” She frowned and rode a little ways away, out of sight of the guard.

Hopping down from Arthas's saddle and tying him to a tree, Skye snuck around, trying to find an opening or unmanned gate into Rinde, so she could get through. Crouching behind a low wall, Skye watched the guard stationed at the gate she had just tried to get through, stopping another person trying to enter Rinde. Taking the opening, she quickly ran for the gate, slipping through and dodging behind a nearby building as the guard turned back towards the gate. Checking to see if the coast was clear, Skye started moving through the mostly empty streets of the ordinarily bustling town of Rinde.

She heard a loud ruckus coming from a nearby shop, its doors busted open and the sounds of screams of help and pain coming from it. “What is the chance?” Skye huffed to herself, rolling her eyes and heading towards the shop, the Pawnbroker's, read the sign above the door.

Lo and behold, there was the infamous White Wolf, having obviously smashed nearly everything in the Pawnbroker's shop and now had said Pawnbroker, trapped in a corner, where he was mercilessly kicking him between the legs. Even Skye winced at each of the full strength kicks to the poor man's genitals.

“Help me!” The Pawnbroker howled, shaking in agony and fear, as he saw Skye standing there, mouth hanging open.

Snapping out of it, Skye advanced on Geralt. “Geralt, stop!” She barked, wrapping her arms around one of his and yanking as hard as she could. “Stop this, Geralt!” She begged him, giving up on pulling him and tried pushing him sideways, only getting a similar outcome.

“This isn't you, Geralt!” She screamed, punching him in the shoulder and side. “Please!” She pleaded with him as he continued to kick the Pawnbroker, acting as if her blows were nothing more than the pathetic bites of a flea.

“Motherfucker!” She howled, managing to wedge herself between Geralt and the Pawnbroker, blocking a couple of the kicks with her own body, bruises forming within seconds after each blow. “Come on, Geralt!” She panted, frantically searching his face.

His eyes were glassed over, face set in a snarl of anger, yet somehow blank and distant.

“What's happened to you?” She whined and hissed as she blocked another blow, punching him in the chest a few times.

“Magic!” The Pawnbroker screamed, as Skye missed a blow and he got another kick between the legs. “That bitch of a mage has taken control of his mind with her vile magic.”

Skye's shoulders dropped, “Not again.” She sighed, then slapped Geralt across the face, hoping it would snap him out of it, but it only seemed to anger him more and shift his full focus onto her. “Oh fuck.” She whimpered, gulping up at him.

Geralt grabbed the front of Skye's shirt, yanking her against his heaving body, then twisted sideways and shoved her away; sending Skye flying through a bank of shelves that crashed down on top of her as she landed, knocking her out. His influenced attention losing interest in both the Pawnbroker and Skye, and turning on his heels, Geralt strode out of the Pawnbroker's shop and stormed towards his next target. Whining, the Pawnbroker gingerly crawled out of the corner and towards where Skye was laid out, a trickle of blood streaming down her forehead, from a cut at her hairline and above her left eye.

“Girl.” The Pawnbroker groaned, gingerly shaking Skye, half terrified she was dead.

“Kobus!” A voice screamed out, as a soldier filled the broken doorway of the shop.

“Here, Berg.” The Pawnbroker, Kobus, shouted back, still trying to stir Skye.

“Who is she?” Berg asked, picking his way through the ruined shop.

“I don't know.” Kobus responded, pushing away the blood matted hair on Skye's face, trying to see how bad the wound was. “She took some of the punishment the Witcher was giving me, then he tossed her into my shelves.” He explained, wincing at the nasty gash.

“Here, splash her with this.” Berg said, taking a water skin from his belt and handing it to Kobus.

Uncorking the water skin, Kobus tipped it upside down and poured all the water out of it, over Skye's face. With a sputter, Skye came back around, coughing as some of the water went in her nose, and tried sitting up, woozy and aching. She looked at the two men standing over her, recognizing the Pawnbroker, but not the other man.

“Who are you?” She asked, finally managing to sit up.

“I could ask you the same.” Berg replied, lifting a suspicious brow at her. “What is your relation to the Witcher?” She asked.

“He owes me something important.” Skye replied, stumbling to her feet and leaned against the Pawnbroker's counter.

“And what would that be?” Berg pressed her, narrowing his eyes.

“That's my personal business.” She snapped, gingerly touching the cuts on her face. “Looks like he's going to owe me a hell of a lot more, when this is all over.” She added to herself, pushing off the counter.

“I don'--”

The sound of screams in the streets stopped Berg from interrogating Skye further, all three of them stumbling out of the shop at the sound of them. Skye groaned, rolling her throbbing eyes back as she watched Geralt forcefully drag another man out of his shop, the Apothecary, it looked like, and tossed him into the middle of the street. Nabbing the Apothecary, before he could crawl away from him, Geralt hauled the Apothecary up onto their feet, yanked their belt free from the loops of their trousers, which fell down around his ankles, and promptly started thrashing the Apothecary's ass with the belt.

Skye, Kobus and Berg's mouths dropped to the cobblestone street as they watched him spank the poor Apothecary.

“Witcher!” A voice yelled and an Elf came running into view and towards Geralt, trying to stop him from doing any further damage.

Skye tried to run forward, but Berg grabbed her around the waist, holding her back. “Arrest them!” Berg yelled to several other guards, who were likely standing around with slack jaws, but they quickly jumped into action, seizing the Elf and, after a mild struggle and a blow to the back of his head, subdued Geralt.

The soldiers carried Geralt and the Elf away, and Berg turned his attention back to Skye. “What are your dealings with the Witcher?” He asked her again. “Be truthful this time, or you will be joining them in their cell.” He warned her.

“I hired the pig-headed lout to kill a drowned dead on my farm and he took the money I paid, then ran.” Skye hissed, hotly. “I want it back!” She told him, repeating the same twisted lie she had been telling anyone that asked, it had become second nature over the last several weeks.

“Well, you won't be getting your money back from that Witcher.” Berg huffed, letting her go. “He's attacked two of the Rinde council members.”

“And he'll be hanged for it, too!” The Pawnbroker growled, lip twitching and stood in a slight hunched position, hand resting gingerly on his wounded crotch.

Skye let out an angry and disgruntled huff, despite her stomach twisting into nauseating and icy knots. “As long as the jerk gets what he deserves for taking liberties with people.” She spat out, feeling her knees shake as her mind raced to figure out a way to save Geralt from the gallows.

“Geralt!”

“Skye.”

“Geralt!”

“Skye.”

“Ger—wake up!”

“Skye?”

“G—wake up!”

“Wake up!”

“Hm.” Geralt groaned, the sound of Skye calling him slowly fading and changing, until he opened his eyes, a blurry vision of someone in front of his face, until it cleared. “Chireadan?” He frowned at the Elf healer.

“At long last.” Chireadan replied and stepped back from Geralt, the tinkling sound of chains following his movements.

Geralt looked around the strange vaulted and brick ceiling and walls, feeling the tight iron clasped around his wrists. “Where are we?” He asked, his body throbbing as he laid on the cold, hard floor of the dungeon cell, before sitting himself up.

“The spa.” Chireadan replied, irritated. “Where do you think? I hope your rampage was well worth it.” He added, more angrily.

“Rampage?” Geralt frowned, steadying himself. “What did I do?”

“Where do I begin?” the Elf asked, lifting his brows at the Witcher. “You attacked a Pawnbroker in his shop, kicking him in the delicate places.” He explained, as Geralt moved about the cell.

“Hm.” He grunted, shaking the secure bars on the windows.

“You dragged out the Apothecary, yanked down his pants and thrashed his arse with his own belt.” Chireadan continued, as Geralt shook the cell door. “Both are on the town council, that are trying to overthrow the mayor and kick out the mage you sought help from.”

“Do you remember none of this?” He asked, once Geralt gave up on trying to find a way out.

“Like a faded dream.”

“Your punishment will be passed by the very members you attacked,” Chireadan said, grimly. “It's more than like to be death.” He added in a more somber tone. “By hanging.”

Geralt sighed and shook his head, “That's one way to get some peace.” He mumbled, sitting back down on the floor, his back against the wall, literally and figuratively.

“Why did you go to the mage after I told you not too?” Chireadan berated him, shaking with anger. “It's like you thought the scorpion was more beautiful than the spider, because of its lovely tail!”

“You didn't exactly tell me who she was.”

Chireadan relaxed, knowing that getting angry at their situation wasn't going to get them out of it. “I admit I could have warned you better about Yennefer.”

“You're under her spell, aren't you?” Geralt rasped, looking the Elf in the eyes and reading his body language.

“No.” Chireadan shook his head, tired and defeated. “It's a simple problem of body chemistry.” He admitted, begrudgingly.

Geralt blinked at him, tilting his head forward. “You're in love with her?”

“Yes.” He nodded, biting his lip. “I believe we both understand each other now.”

An opening door reverberated through the brick dungeon and the sound of steps approaching echoed towards them. Geralt and Chireadan stood as the owner of the steps appeared in the arched doorway that opened into a room to their cell.

“Ah, fuck.” Geralt grumbled under his breath seeing the guard he knocked out, so he could gain access to the Mayor's house and get Jaskier to the mage, Yennefer, before he died.

“You remember me, Witcher?” the Guard asked and leaned his forehead between the cell bars, grinning at Geralt.

Geralt pressed his lips together and smiled tightly back, giving the guard a soft nod of his head.

“I did not know you were a Witcher, last we met.” the Guard chuckled, his expression smug. “I've always wanted to play with one of you, and it looks like I get to, before we hang you in the morning.”

Skye had stayed behind Berg from a safe distance as he left the main area of Rinde. She knew he had to be someone of importance since he could order the soldiers around without being questioned. So, she trailed after him and did her best not to get caught or draw any attention to herself.

Ducking into a side alley, Skye pressed her back flush to the wall as Berg stopped and looked around, before entering a building two doors down from Skye's hiding place. Calming her heart, Skye slipped back out onto the walkway and quickly made her way to the door Berg vanished into, pressing her ear to the smooth and worn wood. Hearing the faintest muffled sounds through the door, Skye carefully opened it and slipped inside, quietly closing the door behind her.

Scanning the plastered and river rock room, Skye tiptoed towards the only other door there was, behind a counter and large desk. The door was propped open and creaked as she tried pushing it open, making her wince, before she squeezed her body through the available crack, the door complaining as she did. Skye stood glued to the wall beside the door, heart pounding, as she expected Berg or someone else to come into the hall and find her there. Luckily, it didn't seem like anyone heard the door, or anyone was around at all, but she knew at least Berg had to be, there was nowhere else for him to be in the building.

Tiptoeing slowly over the slate flooring and taking one careful step after another, mindful to the squeak of her leather soles as she did, Skye found there were five arched doorways along the hall she was in, two to the left and three to the right. Biting her lip, Skye poked her head around the first doorway on the left and found an empty and shabby office, then moved across the hall and peeked into the first doorway on the right, finding an empty cell. Crossing to the second doorway on the left, she found another empty cell, then moved across the hall again, to the middle doorway along the right side of the hall, but froze, hearing the soft echo of a voice, Berg's voice.

“I did not know you were a Witcher, last we met.” Berg was saying.

Biting her lip, Skye zigzagged across the hallway until she made it to the last doorway on the right, she squatted down and carefully peeked around the corner. She saw Berg standing at the cell's bars, the Elf that had tried stopping Geralt in the street, then Geralt himself, who looked like he had snapped out of the trance the mage had put him under.

“I've always wanted to play with one of you, and it looks like I get to, before we hang you in the morning.” Berg told Geralt, sounding extremely excited about the prospect.

Skye jerked and slapped a hand over her mouth, hearing the door at the end of the hall start to open. Thinking and moving quickly, Skye ran down the hall and dove into the doorway of the closet cell, just as steps came up the hall, going towards Geralt and the Elf's cell, the jingle of keys thumping against the new person's thigh.

“You asked for the keys, Master Berg?” the person asked, stopping in the doorway and lifting the keys from the loop of his belt.

“Yes, Daren.” Berg nodded, grinning maliciously at Geralt and stepping away from the cell door.

Daren stepped forward, flipping through several of the keys until he found the one for Geralt's cell and opened it for Berg. Stepping inside, Berg ordered Daren to lock the door again behind him.

“I'll call you, when I've finished with the Witcher.” Berg told him, flexing and popping his gloved fingers.

Daren locked the cell and went to the little office Skye had seen on her inspection of the hallway. Listening carefully, Skye heard the scrape of the wooden chair legs on the slate flooring and Daren's groan as he lowered himself onto the chair. Taking the cue, Skye crouched and slowly crawled into the hallway and along with wall, back to Geralt's cell, peeking around the door as Berg sized up Geralt, who was unfairly shackled to a short chain, fastened to an anchor in the floor and clasped around the wrists, there was no way for Geralt to fight back or really defend himself against Berg. Berg slowly bent down and grabbed the chain to Geralt's cuffs, wrapping a bit of it around his hand and yanked Geralt towards him, using the forward momentum to drive him knee into Geralt's stomach, and unable to properly catch himself as Geralt fell, hit the ground face first; making Skye wince.

Berg grabbed the back of Geralt's shirt and pulled him up onto his knees. “What's the difference between a Witcher and a tub of dung?” He asked, then kneed Geralt in the face.

Geralt groaned at the blow, wobbling on his knees, but started laughing and nodded his head. “I know that one.” He chuckled, amused.

Yanking him to his feet, Berg punched Geralt in the kidney, turned him around and struck him across the face, sending him stumbling back into the cell bars. Skye watched Geralt's beating with a twisted heart and hopelessness as she tried to figure out how to get him out of there. But, the answer came for her, literally. So consumed and distracted by watching Berg beating Geralt, Skye missed the steps coming up behind her, until a hand twisted into the back of her shirt, making her yelp as she was pulled clear off her hands and knees, and slammed against the brick wall by the doorway. Daren pinned Skye to the wall by the shoulders, his face so close to hers, the tip of their noses brushed.

“Who are you?” He hissed, hot breath wafting over Skye's face.

“Who are you?”

She echoed back, blinking at him as her hand slowly moved towards her scabbard and her sword, but her face paled, when she touched her bare thigh, realizing she had forgotten her sword on Arthas's saddle outside of Rinde. Daren felt the movement of her hand through her shoulder and glanced down, chuckling, when he realized what had caused her to go ashen, and met her eye again.

“Forget something?” He teased her, smugly.

“Not really.” Skye replied, then drove her knee up into his groin, causing him to howl at the top of his lungs.

The three men in the cell heard his yelp of pain and froze, heads snapping to the doorway.

“Daren, what is all that!” Berg yelled out to his deputy, but didn't receive an answer. “Daren!” He barked, growing heated as Daren didn't answer him or appear. “Daren!”

Daren stood up, looming above Skye as he did, chuckling, despite his pain, at her audible gulp at seeing how big he actually was. She tried kneeing him again, but Daren blocked it with his hands and elbowed Skye sharply in the gut, driving all of the air out of her lungs and leaving black, flashing spots in her eyes and her still throbbing head spinning. Grabbing the front of her shirt, Daren snapped Skye off the wall and took a step back.

“Aye, right here, Berg!” He finally called out to him, who had kept shouting for him. “Looks like we have a little sneak.” His laugh was raspy as he shoved Skye backwards into the room.

Tripping over her feet, Skye fell backwards and hit her head on the slate, gasping with pain and getting more spots in her eyes. Geralt was leaning his shoulder against the brick wall, trying to take advantage of Berg's pause in beating him to catch his breath and prepare himself for whatever else the guard was going to treat him too. But, looked up, when the deputy finally answered Berg and shoved in what had been keeping him so long. He felt his stomach give out, seeing Skye roughly shoved into the room and the sick smack of her head hitting the ground, his mouth hung open as he stared at her, shocked to see her there, and in such a sorry state. She had blood caked into her hair and drying down the side of her face, and covered in cuts and painful looking bruises.

“Her again!” Berg barked, stepping up to the cell bars, to get a closer look at Skye.

“Again?” Daren frowned at his boss.

“Yeah, she was in the square, when the Witcher was on his spree.” He explained, jabbing a thumb behind him to Geralt. “She even tried stopping him from beating Kobus. Ended up taking most of it herself.” He chuckled, amused.

Geralt's eyes flared with shock, hearing that Skye had tried getting between him and the Pawnbroker, realizing that several of her wounds and marks were from him, and that he hadn't dreamed of her calling his name, she had actually done so.

“What is your business with this harlot, Witcher?” Berg asked, turning back to Geralt, then saw the look on the Witcher's face. “Oh, you know her.”

Geralt's face went stony instantly, trying to guard against anything Berg could use with his and Skye's connection, to further harm him, and ultimately, Skye. But, it was too late, Berg had seen the expression on Geralt's face and in his golden eyes. The two guards took infinite amusement out of this new development, glancing at Skye and Geralt, than at each other. Berg leaned down and picked up Geralt's chain again.

“A Witcher with feelings.” He mused, a sick and sinister grin on his bearded face. “How sweet. I wonder how much he feels, Daren.” He inquired of his partner.

“We could find out.” Daren smirked, understanding Berg's hint as he leaned over Skye, who was starting to come back around, having momentarily lost consciousness.

Daren moved around to Skye and drove the blunt and rounded tip of his worn boot into her ribs, causing her to cry out and roll onto her other side, curling up to try and protect herself, tears rolling down her cheeks. Geralt jerked against his shackles and Berg, instinctively trying to get to Skye, despite a locked cell door between them, halting his progress to protect her.

Laughing, Berg slowly reeled Geralt in by his chain. “What is vile..” He pulled the chain in faster. “deviant and repulsive?” He asked, suddenly yanking Geralt forward and punching him across the face, sending Geralt spiraling backwards and to his knees, facing Skye.

“A Witcher without a nose.” He laughed, taking great pleasure in the tandem torture.

Geralt gulped down the thick saliva in his mouth, swaying back and forth on his knees, blood dripping from a split lip and a gash just below one of his eyes. He struggled to keep his eyes open, his vision fuzzy as he helplessly watched Daren continue to assault Skye. She whimpered as another boot tip connected to her spine and kidneys, trying to curl up and protect herself the best she possibly could. But, Daren wasn't having any of it, he straddled Skye's body, grasping her by the shoulder and pressed her down onto her back, forcing her to uncurl with a blinding slap across the cheek, that made her ears ring and left a bloody split across her bottom lip.

Skye shook her head, trying to relieve some of the agonizing pain in her face and head. Daren started to strike her again, when she pulled her knees up towards her shoulders and kicked out both feet at the same time, connecting to his chest and sent him flying backwards into the wall behind him and down to his hands and knees. Geralt couldn't help the smirk on his face, the pride he felt, as Skye defended herself, but it was short lived, when Berg rammed his foot into Geralt's back knocking him flat to the ground, groaning as he again went face first.

“Is that your little whore, Witcher?” Berg rasped, pressing his heel down on the back of Geralt's neck. “How much you must have paid her, that she'd follow you so far and want to try and rescue you.” He taunted him, stomping on Geralt's back.

“She must be good in bed.”

“Not when I finish with her.” Daren growled, using a bench against the wall to pull himself back onto his feet.

Skye was laying splayed on the floor, trying to recover herself, as Daren got up and advanced on her. She looked up at the domed stone ceiling, trying to muster any amount of energy to fight back and defend herself against whatever it was the Redanian guard had in his mind. Geralt shuffled and carefully pushed himself back up onto his knees, spent and battered from everything he had been through since finding the djinn in the Rinde lake, from heartbreak, to almost killing Jaskier, who he hadn't seen since the mage, Yennefer, had healed him and managed to get control of Geralt's mind, to send him on a rampage to avenge and payback the people that had tied to ruin whatever plans she had going. Now, there was Skye, the biggest surprise since he arrived in Rinde three days before, laying out on the floor as bloody and exhausted as he was. His fear spiked seeing Daren advance on her, grabbing her by the ankles and yanking her to him so hard, her arms went over her head, the rough flooring scratching up her back as her shirt rode up.

“This is it, Witcher.” Berg said, out of breath as he stood behind Geralt, pulling a long club from his belt.

Daren leaned over Skye and wrapped his hands around her throat, she gurgled and choked around his broad and meaty palms, gripping and clawing at his wrists and arms, feet pathetically flailing between his wide spread and planted legs. Geralt watched her face start to change colors, a white-hot anger broiled up inside of him, tensing up and swelling his already massive and thickly muscular body, angry at the audacity of Daren to put his hands on Skye, furious that he couldn't get to him and snap his measly neck and save Skye, before it was too late.

“Any last words, Witcher?” Berg asked, slapping the club in his palm, smugly. “Make them good.” He chuckled.

Geralt growled deep in his throat and chest, hands squeezing into fists as he rested back on his heels. “I want you to burst, you son of a whore.” He hissed, roughly.

An unnatural breeze stirred up in the otherwise stagnant cell and Berg's back stiffened, his mouth falling open and his stone-blue eyes bulged out of their sockets. With a look of terrified shock and horror on his face, the pressure inside Berg's head expanded, until it popped like a water balloon, spraying blood and matter on the walls and the side of poor Chireadan's face as he stood there behind him, watching all the events with a dumbfounded and helpless shock. Chireadan blinked several times, trying to keep himself together as he felt the warm blood, skull bits and brain matter slide down the side of his face and neck, an eye watering lump of hot nausea rising up in his gullet, but he managed to shove it down and keep himself from fainting.

“You--” He shook his head and gulped down the persistent nausea again. “You are the-the one with the...wishes.” He said, around the lump fighting to get out of his throat.

Geralt's mouth hung open as he yanked up the black sleeve of his shirt, seeing an identical cut on his forearm above the first one. He realized now, that whoever removed the seal from the amphora, was the person that had control over the djinn. That the first cut to his forearm was caused by him, angrily, telling Jaskier that he had just wanted some peace, he had caused the djinn to magically attack Jaskier's throat, to shut up him and grant Geralt's wish of peace. The same for the second cut and the popping of Berg's head.

His head and eyes snapped up, seeing Skye still trapped underneath Daren, who had only applied more pressure to her throat in his rage for Berg's strange and sudden death. “The keys!” Geralt barked, spinning around on his knees towards Berg's body, looking for keys.

Chireadan's eyes panned over Berg's body, until he remembered. “He doesn't have the keys.” The Elf told Geralt, frantic as Skye's struggle started to fade. “He has them!” He gasped, pointing to Daren with his bound hands.

Geralt shot a look at Daren and Skye, her face and lips starting to go blue and her hands weakly wrapped around his wrists, starting to slip away from them. She was fading quickly and if Geralt didn't act even faster, she'd be dead in a minute. He looked down at his arm, at the thin bloody scratches on his thick forearm and realized what he had to do, so he cleared his dry throat.

“I wish,” He whispered, and the djinn's wind kicked up again around them, as he mumbled the wish out, too quiet for Chireadan to hear.

Then, suddenly, Skye's minty-green eyes flew open and she took a deep, wheezy breath around Daren's iron grasp. She squirmed against him for a moment, before letting go of his wrist with one hand and reached for her ankle as she brought a foot up, her hand wrapping around the handle of her father's dagger, having forgotten she had the weapon strapped to her ankle and calf. Yanking the blade free from its sheath, Skye gripped the hilt tightly, raised it, then plunged it into his back, slipping the sharp tip between two of his ribs and into his kidney. Daren instantly released her throat, allowing Skye to gasp for several more lungfuls of air, the color slowly returning to her face and lips.

“Skye.” Geralt let out a soft breath of relief, almost bringing tears to his eyes.

But, the war wasn't over yet.

Skye had yanked the dagger free as Daren stumbled away from her, howling with pain and anger, then started at her again. But, Sky brought her knees up, catching Daren as he started to fall on her, bracing the pummel of the dagger against her chest and letting Daren fall on it, the tip piercing through his chest, killing him, finally.

“Fuck.” Skye huffed in a weak and rough voice, swallowing down thick saliva as she tipped to one side to get Daren off the top of her, then laid there for a few minutes, dizzy, falling in and out of consciousness as her whole body, inside and out, throbbed and bleed.

“Skye.” Geralt called to her louder, frightened as he watched her lay on her side, facing away from him, terrified that she was dead, but gasped, hearing her pained groan. “Skye!”

Fighting off another wave that threatened her to lose consciousness, she rolled onto her back, and laid there for a long moment, then struggled to sit herself up, holding her head in her hands once she managed that.

“Geralt.” She whined, looking over at him, warmed to see his relieved smile, but was too battered to return it.

Sighing, Skye snatched the cell keys from Daren's belt with numb fingers, then pulling herself to her feet, staggering and widening her stance for a few minutes to keep herself upright, then moved to unlock the cell door.

“Here, here.” Chireadan offered, seeing Skye struggle to work the key into the lock, and reached through the bars to open it.

“Thanks.” Skye sighed, clearing her throat and shaking her head, trying to keep her eyes open.

“Skye!” Geralt called out, as the shackles around his wrists fell free, and quickly moved forward. “Gods, Skye.” He panted heavily, wrapping an arm around her swaying hips, steadying her. “What the fuck were you thinking, coming after me?” He chided her softly and meaninglessly.

Skye didn't answer for a moment, she just leaned in against him, the solid warmth of his body and his scent filling her bloody nose had a strong effect on her, her struggle against staying conscious vanished and she was alert and clear headed. That's when she yanked her body out of Geralt's arms and looked up at him, furious and boiling with rage.

“What was I thinking?” She shouted at him. “What was I thinking! What the hell were you thinking!? Leaving me like that!”

“I was--” Geralt tried to explain himself.

“You were what!?” Skye barked at him, her voice echoing and amplified. “Being a pig-headed lout! Abandoning me like some sort of wounded animal that you didn't have the bloody heart to put out of its misery!” She continued to berate him, suddenly striking him in the chest, in her fit of rage.

“Sk-” He tried to get a word in, his shoulders slumping.

“I hate you!” She hissed and punched him in the chest again. “I hate you, I hate you, I hate you, Geralt.” She howled, her anger losing out to her anguish, her punches growing weaker and feeble.

Geralt gripped her wrists and pulled her against him again, resting her head against his chest and cradled the back of her head. “I know.” He whispered into her dirty hair. “I know, Skye. I know.”

She sobbed into his chest, depleted and done, her hands gripping the back of the leather shirt he wore. “I came..” She choked and wiped her nose on her bloody sleeve. “I came...because..” Her mouth worked for a moment, tears making her face even more of a bloody mess.

“I-I..I l-love..you, Geralt.” She sighed, going slack against him.

Geralt squeezed his eyes shut, burying his nose into her hair and nuzzling the top of her head, a thick lump in his throat. “I-I..” He folded his arms around her, squeezing despite the agony both of their bodies were in.

“I love you too, Skye.”

-- Chapter VI --

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